


Do You Know What Eternity Is?

by Elderly_Worm



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Agender Aziraphale (Good Omens), Ancient China, Ancient Egypt, Ancient History, Ancient Jerusalem, Ancient Kush, Ancient Mesopotamia, Ancient Mu (Good Omens), Ancient Phoenicia, Aziraphale Is Trying (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Canon Typical Alcohol Consumption, Canon Typical Swearing, Changing Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Crowley's Name is Crawly | Crawley (Good Omens), Demisexual Crowley (Good Omens), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Grey-Agender Aziraphale (Good Omens), Grey-Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Han Dynasty (202 BCE-220 CE), He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Hell is Terrible (Good Omens), Implied/Referenced Torture, Jewish Holidays, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Other, POV Alternating, Period Typical Attitudes, Queer Guardian Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Queer Guardian Demon Crowley (Good Omens), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 417
Words: 250,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25798744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elderly_Worm/pseuds/Elderly_Worm
Summary: Aziraphale frowned. "What you’re saying, then, is that discorporating you would cause more temptations in the end?”“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Not to mention, they’d be better quality, more efficient temptations. And possibly more violent. A lot of Demons really enjoy that sort of thing.”“And you don’t?” asked Aziraphale, softly.“Oh.” Crawly blinked. “Erm. No, I mean, I really like violence. Big violence-er, me. Always calling for more violence in Hell. I like a good flaying, y’know. All that. Screaming. Er.”“Indeed,” said the Angel.Bless it.-This story follows Aziraphale and Crowley's experiences from Eden to the failed Apocalypse, with one scene per decade, every decade, for the entire 6,000 years. I'm drawing predominantly from show canon, with elements of book canon, as well as Biblical and historical inspiration.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1559
Kudos: 324





	1. Warning Index

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Do You Know What Eternity Is?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27697025) by [Avasonta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avasonta/pseuds/Avasonta)



> In concession to the length, the first chapter is an index of scene-specific warnings. Warnings are also included in the notes before each chapter.
> 
> As of early February 2021, there more than 450 scenes written, encompassing over 280k words and 4,500 years. I hope to finish writing in Spring or early Summer 2021. As such, I intend to post two chapters a day for the foreseeable future.
> 
> I am [@elderly-worm](https://elderly-worm.tumblr.com) on tumblr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings will be added as their chapters are posted. And, while I'm doing my best, this index isn't quite 100% comprehensive, so when in doubt, the individual chapter warnings are slightly more reliable. :)

Implied/Referenced Torture: 3992 BC, 3927 BC, 3916 BC, 3907 BC, 3884 BC, 3870 BC, 3707 BC, 3457 BC, 3424 BC, 3360 BC, 3330 BC, 3239 BC, 3125 BC, 2576 BC, 2556 BC, 2477 BC, 2444 BC, 2146 BC, 1972 BC, 1689 BC, 1657 BC, 1573 BC, 1307 BC, 1285 BC, 1251 BC, 1213 BC, 1191 BC, 821 BC, 738 BC, 700 BC, 583 BC, 527 BC, 435 BC, 367 BC, 227 BC, 147 BC, 17 BC

Violence: 3992 BC, 3967 BC, 3940 BC, 3916 BC, 3885 BC, 3538 BC, 3367 BC, 3208 BC, 3125 BC, 3108 BC, 3099 BC, 2918 BC, 2556 BC, 2328 BC, 2168 BC, 2040 BC, 1977 BC, 1928 BC, 1911 BC, 1768 BC, 1689 BC, 1601 BC, 1537 BC, 1457 BC, 1320 BC, 1285 BC, 1179 BC, 870 BC, 827 BC, 776 BC, 758 BC, 700 BC, 667 BC, 527 BC, 501 BC, 435 BC, 272 BC, 26 BC

Discorporation: 3916 BC, 3208 BC, 3108 BC, 2872 BC, 2576 BC, 827 BC, 758 BC, 700 BC

On-Screen Murder: 3885 BC, 3730 BC, 3268 BC, 2721 BC, 2198 BC, 1213 BC, 1165 BC, 700 BC, 17 BC

Minor Character Death: 3885 BC, 3821 BC, 3449 BC, 3444 BC, 3383 BC, 3354 BC, 3308 BC, 3268 BC, 3051 BC, 2908 BC, 2721 BC, 2633 BC, 2552 BC, 2323 BC, 2198 BC, 2184 BC, 2029 BC, 1537 BC, 1457 BC, 1357 BC, 1213 BC, 243 BC

Implied/Referenced Murder: 3884 BC, 3858 BC, 3839 BC, 3797 BC, 3760 BC, 3707 BC, 3666 BC, 3638 BC, 3471 BC, 3457 BC, 3425 BC, 3424 BC, 3288 BC, 3239 BC, 3153 BC, 3125 BC, 2872 BC, 2748 BC, 2672 BC, 2471 BC, 2452 BC, 2361 BC, 2323 BC, 2194 BC, 2146 BC, 2029 BC, 1802 BC, 1689 BC, 1657 BC, 1648 BC, 1617 BC, 1614 BC, 1587 BC, 1577 BC, 1573 BC, 1457 BC, 1382 BC, 1307 BC, 1191 BC, 1179 BC, 1153 BC, 479 BC, 435 BC, 434 BC, 414 BC, 147 BC, 39 BC

Nudity: 3884 BC, 3398 BC, 3228 BC, 2597 BC, 2194 BC

Misgendering/Deadnaming: 3839 BC, 1884 BC, 1643 BC, 1531 BC, 1320 BC, 1285 BC, 1153 BC, 1128 BC, 1116 BC, 1108 BC, 1090 BC, 1078 BC, 1072 BC, 1055 BC, 1049 BC, 1043 BC, 1027 BC, 1011 BC, 968 BC, 950 BC, 870 BC, 758 BC, 667 BC, 4 BC, 41 AD, 52 AD, 66 AD, 77 AD, 125 AD

Injury/Illness: 3821 BC, 3617 BC, 3367 BC, 3299 BC, 3288 BC, 3268 BC, 3239 BC, 3005 BC, 2184 BC, 1689 BC, 1357 BC, 1179 BC, 927 BC, 846 BC, 758 BC, 727 BC, 700 BC, 667 BC, 479 BC, 272 BC, 243 BC

Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment: 3770 BC, 1531 BC, 26 BC

Implied/Referenced Adultery: 3730 BC, 3557 BC, 3471 BC, 3425 BC, 3263 BC, 3239 BC, 3153 BC, 3059 BC, 3015 BC, 2606 BC, 2529 BC, 2323 BC, 1858 BC, 1802 BC, 1447 BC, 861 BC, 527 BC, 262 BC, 114 AD, 125 AD

Grief/Depression: 3444 BC, 2832 BC, 2721 BC, 2323 BC, 2029 BC, 1689 BC, 1657 BC, 1577 BC, 1213 BC, 1191 BC, 923 BC, 821 BC, 758 BC, 700 BC, 659 BC, 479 BC, 455 BC, 435 BC, 434 BC, 414 BC, 378 BC

Unwanted Kissing/Flirting: 3390 BC , 125 AD

Blood: 3288 BC, 1689 BC, 1617 BC, 1457 BC, 1382 BC, 1179 BC, 700 BC, 667 BC, 479 BC

Familial Rejection: 3263 BC, 2992 BC

Implied/Referenced Slavery: 3153 BC, 2606 BC, 2586 BC, 2576 BC, 2567 BC, 2556 BC, 2552 BC, 2512 BC, 2431 BC, 2289 BC, 1987 BC, 1972 BC, 1960 BC, 1820 BC, 1670 BC, 1643 BC, 1617 BC, 1587 BC, 1577 BC, 1573 BC, 1285 BC, 66 AD

Implied/Referenced Forced Marriage: 3087 BC

Emotional Abuse/Gaslighting (Heaven): 3005 BC, 2931 BC, 2477 BC, 2238 BC, 2209 BC, 2194 BC, 1960 BC, 1918 BC, 1820 BC, 1577 BC, 1383 BC, 1204 BC, 927 BC, 912 BC, 888 BC, 846 BC, 667 BC, 645 BC, 86 BC, 72 BC, 48 BC, 26 BC, 6 BC

References to the Flood: 3005 BC, 3004 BC, 2992 BC, 2971 BC, 2939 BC, 2931 BC, 2908 BC, 2880 BC, 2622 BC, 1630 BC, 1577 BC, 1479 BC, 1204 BC, 538 BC

Implied/Referenced Domestic Abuse: 2971 BC, 1386 BC, 870 BC

Xenophobia: 2702 BC, 2643 BC, 2419 BC, 2003 BC, 1601 BC

Ageism: 2643 BC

Queerphobia: 2606 BC, 1531 BC, 870 BC

Implied/Referenced Cannibalism: 2556 BC

Alcohol Use: 2323 BC, 1972 BC, 1845 BC, 1733 BC, 1657 BC, 1630 BC, 1382 BC, 1307 BC, 1137 BC, 1055 BC, 1049 BC, 999 BC, 977 BC, 956 BC, 923 BC, 821 BC, 751 BC, 659 BC, 453 BC, 414 BC, 164 BC, 147 BC, 99 BC, 41 BC, 66 AD, 135 AD

Panic Attack: 2209 BC, 1577 BC, 1382 BC, 479 BC

Implied/Referenced Rape: 2198 BC

Antisemitism: 2003 BC, 1987 BC, 1977 BC, 1657 BC, 1617 BC, 1601 BC, 1444 BC, 587 BC, 473 BC, 272 BC, 216 BC, 208 BC, 166 BC, 39 BC, 77 AD, 142 AD

Slavery: 1977 BC, 1699 BC, 1677 BC, 1648 BC, 41 AD, 77 AD, 142 AD

Ableist Language: 1928 BC

Sexism: 1884 BC, 1670 BC, 57 BC

Implied/Referenced Sex: 1630 BC, 1510 BC, 841 BC, 676 BC, 26 BC

Gender Dysphoria: 1614 BC, 1510 BC

Suicide/Self Harm: 1285 BC, 758 BC, 479 BC

Implied/Referenced Genocide: 473 BC, 216 BC, 142 AD

Suggestive Themes: 41 AD


	2. 4004 BC - Eastern Africa

_4004 BC. Eastern Africa, Outside the Garden._

Aziraphale sat in the sand, letting it run through their fingers. Sand, they’d decided, was fascinating. It was warm, and looked soft. However, after their second hour sitting in it, they’d come to the conclusion that it was actually rather hard. 

There was quite a lot of sand around here. They’d perceived it from the noncorporeal plane shortly before receiving their body, and, of course, seen it around the Garden. Still, they hadn’t really grasped just how much sand there was, on a practical level. It was difficult to do that sort of thing when one was a noncorporeal entity unfathomable to the vast majority of corporeal beings. 

Not all corporeal beings, clearly. After all, they were a corporeal being themself now. Fancy that. 

A shout caught their attention, and they looked first at the sun,* then at the oasis where Adam and Eve were staying. Oh, yes. They were meant to be “watching over” the humans and guiding them toward good. But not revealing their Angelic nature and interfering, it would seem. The Archangel Gabriel had been particularly intent upon that point. 

(* The sun did not burn their eyes because, not yet being accustomed to having a human body, they did not expect it to.)

How was one meant to guide them toward good without interfering? Perhaps they ought to ask Heaven. After all, if they got too close to the humans, Aziraphale was sure they would notice their presence. They seemed delightfully bright things in the Garden, what with naming every living thing and all the asking of questions.

Though perhaps it was best not to dwell on the second bit, considering how that turned out. 

Aziraphale stood, walked a few meters, and sat down again. The sand here seemed warmer than in the last spot they’d sat. 

The sun was sinking. They’d seen it rise before, but not set. Guardian of the Eastern Gate and all that. Would it slowly cross the horizon, as it did when it rose? Or would it do something else? 

They watched it, but before very long heard footsteps in the sand and turned to look. Oh, dear. Adam was making his way toward them. 

What were they meant to do? Surely, it wouldn’t be a problem if the human approached _them_ rather than the other way around. Indeed, considering Adam’s expression of concern and kindness for his fellow being, it would seem Aziraphale’s mere presence had encouraged him to show kindness. 

There was not time to ask Heaven now, and doing so would surely give them away, so instead they waited until Adam was close enough that it seemed odd not to stand. 

They stood. 

Adam reached them. “It’s going to be cold out soon. My wife, Eve, and I saw you up here and were concerned for you. Would you like to come down? We have a fire.”

“Oh, erm. That sounds wonderful. Thank you.” Aziraphale smiled in what they hoped was a reassuring manner. Their body had undergone a few changes after Eden, meant to help conceal their Angelic nature from humans. Their wings had been put away, for one. With a bit of luck, Adam and Eve would not recognize them from the Garden, and they’d be able to watch over the humans and guide them toward good. 


	3. 3992 BC - Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to torture and brief violence.

_3992 BC. Hell._

Crawly swatted a minor Demon who’d flown into their face. “Watch where you’re going.”

“Sorry, Master Crawly, your disagreeableness.”

The door opened and another Demon strode in. “It’s not wrong, a Demon apologizing like that.” 

The minor Demon started sizzling, and flew around the corner. There was a wet smacking noise, presumably as they hit the wall, and more sizzling. 

Crawly leaned back on the table they were sitting on and turned to look at the new Demon. “Ligur.”

“Crawly. We’re bowing now.”

Crawly bowed.

“Fine. But it’d better be more demeaning next time. Anyway—”

“Hang on.”

“Ha. Hang. Good one. Anyway, Crawly—”

“No, that’s not it. Why am I bowing to you, anyway? Beelzebub, sure. Dagon. Our lord and master, of course. But you?”

Ligur growled, their chameleon turning a putrescent shade of green. “Shut up, Crawly. Hangings are funny. Arguing rank is not.”

“Hangings—” began Crawly, argumentatively.

“Anyway. We’re having a torture contest. Somebody said we should invite you.”

“Somebody?”

“Hastur likes the faces you make at torture contests.”

“’Course they do. I make hilarious faces.”

“No,” said Ligur.

“No?”

“Not hilarious. More… pained. Constipated. Like you’ve just—”

“Yeah, yeah, hang on now. I think I get the point. But, er. I was just on my way to see Dagon.”

“Why the Heaven would you want to see Dagon?”

“None of your business, Ligur. I’ll swing by the torture when I’m done.”

“It’s a torture _contest_.”

“Yeah, that. I’ll swing by.” Crawly paused. “What’re you torturing, anyway? The humans haven’t managed to die yet, have they?”

“No, they haven’t. Bastards. Being alive when we could be torturing them.”

“Absolutely. But who’re you torturing?”

“Lesser Demons. Each other, maybe. Haven’t decided on prizes yet. If you wanted to volunteer…?” Ligur smiled.

“Er, no. I’m good.”

Ligur recoiled, chameleon blanching. 

“I mean, I’m bad. Not volunteering.” Crawly slid off the table. “Finding Dagon. Are they still in those caverns with the slime?”

“Don’t know. Sure you don’t want to come?”

“This is important, unfortunately. Important business with, er. Slime. Catch you later.” Crawly left.

“Not if I can help it,” Ligur muttered. 


	4. 3978 BC - Eastern Africa

_3978 BC. Eastern Africa, home of Adam, Eve, and Cain._

“Oh, thank you very much my dear,” said Aziraphale, accepting a serving of the meal Eve had prepared for the evening and pretending to nibble at it. It simply wouldn’t do, taking food from the mouths of hardworking humans when he didn’t need to eat at all. “I say, Cain is becoming quite the strapping young lad, isn’t he?” 

The boy sat some distance away, apparently thinking. 

“We’re very proud of him,” said Adam. “He’s been digging in the ground recently.”

“He has,” said Eve, joining them. “I’m not sure why, but it’s interesting to watch.”

“Mmm. Indubitably.” While Eve and Adam were watching their son, Aziraphale took the opportunity to miracle a not-insignificant portion of his* own food into their bowls. “Have you ever considered… I don’t know. Having another? If it’s not too impertinent a question to ask, of course.”

(* Though Aziraphale had no particular tendency toward one gender or another, Adam and Eve took to referring to him as they did Adam shortly after Aziraphale joined them. He took no objection to it, so it stuck.)  
Adam and Eve exchanged a look. Finally, Eve made eye contact with him. 

“We’ve thought about it, but we can’t quite work out exactly how it worked in the first place.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. 

He had been informed the last time he visited Heaven exactly how it happened. They also instructed him to encourage them a bit. After all, three humans was not enough. Or so Gabriel said. Of course, they knew better than he did.

“Yeah,” said Adam. “I’m thinking it might be something about the Garden. The one we told you about, where we were Created. There was a lot of life there. It seems likely there was just something about the place that encouraged growth.”

“I see. I suppose that’s a logical enough conclusion.”

“It’s the only one we have right now,” said Eve. “And Cain is so happy.”

“He is rather, isn’t he?”

“Who’s what?” asked Cain, joining the group. “Is there any food for me?”

“Oh, yes, I think I’m rather… full, yes, that’s it.” Aziraphale held out his own. “Take it; on you go. How’s the… digging?”

“Good. I like digging. There’s stuff in the ground. I get to find out what it is. Worms, for example. And roots.”

“How delightful!”

Cain took the food and sat down next to Eve. “Thank you, Aziraphale.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble, my boy. None at all.”

“I’m starting to wonder what would happen if I put stuff in the ground instead of taking it out. What do you think would happen, Mum?”

“I have no idea. You’d have to try it and find out.”

“I think I might,” said Cain, thoughtfully. 

There was a pleasant sort of pause, and then Adam turned to Aziraphale. “How would you like to take a walk, friend?”

“That would be wonderful.” Aziraphale stood and followed Adam, who picked up his flaming sword to use as a light.

It had never seemed quite the right time to ask for it back. Rude, that. Particularly since, as far as the humans were concerned, he was entirely separate from the Angel who’d given it to them. 

They went some distance from where the family was staying. The night cooled rapidly. Light from the sword flames flickered on the trees, and the air was sweet. For a time, they walked and watched the rapidly appearing stars in silence. They were beautiful.

Finally, Adam paused in a clearing and sat on a large rock. Aziraphale joined him. 

“I never did thank you properly for when you invited me to join you, all those years ago,” said the Angel.

“It was no hardship. Especially while Eve was pregnant, you were very helpful.”

“Yes, well.” Since Adam invited him, Heaven hadn’t been cross when they learned he was interacting. And it would have been dreadfully boring for him to follow them at a distance with nothing to do but watch and guide from afar. “Thank you all the same. Even after Cain was born. He’s a good boy, you know.”

“I know,” said Adam proudly.


	5. 3967 BC - Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence.

_3967 BC. Hell._

“We muzzt put up a fight,” buzzed Beelzebub to the assembled Demons of Hell. “The Angelzz have gotten ahead while we’ve been lazzzy.”

“I know,” said Crawly from the front. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.” It was what they had been saying since they were brought back down after Eden. They’d got started with a bang, sure, but Hell needed to stay ahead. Especially after Hastur reported there was an Angel living with the humans. Living with them!

“Silenzze, zzerpent.”

“Yes. Right.”

“Zzo. In light of this injuzztice,” said Beelzebub, intolerably slowly.

Crawly did not betray their impatience in any way.

“Our master has dezzided,” said Beelzebub, slower, “to zzend one of our number to zztand up for Hell.”

Murmurs rippled through the horde. So did various grunts of pain as the odd Demon attacked the one next to it in celebration. 

Crawly ducked a swinging claw. 

“Silence,” bellowed Dagon.

“Crawzly,” said Beelzebub. “Sinzze thou art so… eager to ‘protect the reputation of Hell…’ it has been dezzided that thou wilt return to Earth.”

The claw made contact this time as the crowd jeered. Crawly hissed at the Demon in question, baring their teeth. The Demon shrank back. Crawly returned their attention to the Prince of Hell, dipping into an extravagant bow.* “It would be my dishonor to represent Hell by corrupting the humans, Lord Beelzebub.”

(* They were, in fact, bowing in Hell now, and Crawly had spent some time perfecting one just demeaning enough to flatter the receiver, just sarcastic enough to entertain the observer, and just flashy enough to preserve their own pride. They tried to explain this to Hastur once, which incited a brawl that resulted in three discorporations, seven broken bones, two dozen bloody noses, several burns of varying degree, and a new category of commendation.)

“Of course it would,” said Dagon, then turned to the crowd. “It could be any of your dishonor to corrupt the humans!”

The crowd shifted uneasily. 

Crawly smiled. “When do I leave?”

“As zzoon as—”

“The interview’s done,” interrupted Dagon with relish. “Lots of interviewing.”

The crowd was beginning to disperse. 

Crawly nodded slowly. “Right, then. Where’s the interview taking place?”

“Here.” Dagon snapped their fingers, summoning a chair in front of the desk where they and Beelzebub were sitting. 

Crawly spread their wings to boost themself onto the dais, and slumped into the seat. “Interview me.”

“Demon Crawly,” said Dagon. “State your name for no record whatsoever.”

“Crawly,” they said, then added their other name. 

“Crawly. How long have you been in Hell?”

“’Bout thirty-seven years, give or take.”

“And where were you before that?”

“The Garden of Eden.”

“Describe what you were doing in the Garden.”

“Making trouble.”

“In detail, Crawly. If you’re not sufficiently detailed, we will be… obliged to make you repeat yourself. Twice. In fact, you will be interviewed… three times.”

“So you’re saying I’ll be interviewed in triplicate?”

“That’zz not a word, Crawly.” 


	6. 3963 BC - Eastern Africa

_3963 BC. Eastern Africa, home of Adam, Eve, and Cain._

Aziraphale was taking a stroll through the forest around the human settlement. Eve and Adam had gotten into a row in the morning, and though he had stepped in and used just a bit of subtle divine influence to calm them, it had rather set his nerves on edge. 

He’d been having a much more difficult time keeping the humans on the path of good, lately. Why, just the previous month, he’d caught Cain hurting a small, innocent animal that had gotten into his garden! He certainly hadn’t been the cause of _that_. 

Cain’s gardening had been coming along splendidly, though. He’d discovered that when he put particular sections of plants in the dirt he’d been digging in, they grew! It was rather delightful. Adam and Eve were ever so proud. In fact, Eve had been the one to recommend calling it a garden. Humans were so clever. 

A rustle in the brush caught the Angel’s attention, and he turned, hands clasped, to peer toward the source of the sound. The shrub in question was suspiciously still. 

Aziraphale lowered himself down and prodded it with a finger, only to find it hot to the touch.   
He recoiled with dignity. “Er. If this is you, Gabriel, the bit with Cain was not my idea. Not in the slightest. I don’t know what’s gotten into the boy these days.”

The shrub shuddered again, and a serpent’s head appeared from under the leaves. Aziraphale fell backward, landing in the dirt, as the serpent coalesced into a disappointingly familiar Demon. 

“’Course it wasn’t you,” said Crawly. 

“Crawly! What exactly are you doing here?”

“Tempting the humans to damnation,” said Crawly casually. “Obviously.”

“I won’t stand for it,” said Aziraphale, standing and snapping his fingers to clean himself of debris. “You’ve done quite enough to them as it is.”

“Eh… not in my opinion. Or Hell’s in general, for that matter. Original sin’s just the start. We have _plans_ ,” said Crawly, hissing a bit and baring their teeth. 

“The Almighty created the humans. Heaven operates on the word of the Almighty. I am Heaven’s representative on Earth. Therefore, I have jurisdiction over the humans.”

“Nah. Hell doesn’t care about all that. I’m here to stir up trouble.”

“I told you; I won’t stand for it,” said Aziraphale with what he hoped was an air of finality.

“I don’t care what you will or won’t stand for. You’re an Angel. I’m a Demon. I don’t care what you think, and you can’t stop me.” Crawly grinned.

Impertinent thing. Of course a Demon would enjoy arguing. 

“How about we talk it out?” suggested the Demon. “We’ll have an equal chance of convincing the other, that way.”

“Oh, I should think not,” said Aziraphale. “I am an Angel.”

“Sure. Because I think we both remember which of us did better in the Garden.”

It was really a shame violence was frowned upon. It would be much more effective in stopping Demons. “You are incorrigible.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“If you continue influencing the humans, I will be inclined to stop you.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath. He’d heard it was helpful when one became cross. Instead of being helpful, however, as it was only the second or third breath he’d ever taken, he choked and began coughing. 

Crawly watched in amused interest. “Was that intentional? Or are you just that bad at breathing?”

Aziraphale stopped coughing by force of will and glowered at the Demon. “Kindly leave.”

“I’m never kind.”

“Leave. Or I’ll— I’ll—”

“Or you’ll what?” Crawly began circling him. “I can’t imagine Heaven condones violence.”

They didn’t, as far as Aziraphale knew. 

“You can’t do anything to me,” said Crawly gleefully. “Imagine that. Lord Beelzebub is going to be so very happy to hear this.”

“Good will triumph,” said Aziraphale stiffly.

Crawly laughed, then drew back to look him up and down with those infernal eyes. “See you around, Angel. Load of help that’ll do you.”

“My _name_ is Aziraphale.”

“What makes you think I’d bother telling the difference between Angels?” They turned and began walking away. “Good luck.”

Good riddance, too. Aziraphale turned as well and walked back to the settlement. It wasn’t until he was the better part of the way back that he realized ‘good’ luck, coming from a Demon, likely wasn’t well-wishes at all. 


	7. 3948 BC - Eastern Africa

_3948 BC. Eastern Africa, home of Adam, Eve, and their sons._

Crawly lounged around a tree branch, watching the humans bumbling around. The Angel was off taking a walk somewhere, thank Satan. He was so blessedly proper all the time. If Crawly so much as got close enough to hit the humans with a stone, he was standing there, glowing dimly in a subtle display of righteous power. 

Which would have been frightening, if the Angel could actually use all that divine power. But no, he was so proper, he wouldn’t do anything without Heaven’s permission. Which meant he just stood there and argued. Constantly. And he seemed utterly convinced that doing good was… well… the right thing to do. 

It had been entertaining, in the Garden. ‘I do hope I didn’t do the wrong thing,’ indeed. It turned his stomach. New experience for him, turning stomach. And he’d stayed in Hell for forty years. 

But the hypocrisy of it! Going on about Crawly’s corrupting influence when he’d given the humans a whole flaming weapon, which he hadn’t taken back now that he was with them again. Crawly had seen the flaming sword more times than he could count since he’d arrived, more often than not used for some unsavory purpose. But no matter how many animals fell victim, the Angel hadn’t bothered to take it back. Honestly.

He slithered from his branch and made his way toward the humans, looking around the camp. Adam was off walking somewhere as well. Possibly with the Angel. Couldn’t tempt him, then. Eve was cooking. Seemed a bit rude to tempt her around food, again. Well, not rude. Redundant. Uncreative. Boring. 

Crawly had already spoken with Cain twice that week, but had gotten a bit heavy-handed the most recent time. Luckily, Cain was taking it out on small animals that had been eating his precious garden. That one, Crawly could let sit for a bit. Simmer.

There was an art to temptation, he was sure of it. 

A strange chortling sound caught his attention. Oh, yeah. The new one. Crawly called it the new one—it had been around for about five years now. New enough to have not bothered learning its name yet. 

He followed the sound until he found the new one sitting in a clearing just out of sight of its mother, building a lumpy structure of some kind with sticks, mud, and leaves.

Crawly concentrated, and adopted a human appearance again. He’d found, when he met Cain, that the newer humans were put off by talking animals. 

They’d also come up with new ways to talk about themselves depending on what they looked like, which they called ‘gender.’ Crawly had picked the one that seemed most popular at the moment, though he thought he might change it up later on, if he got bored.

He walked up to the new one and squatted down. The new one didn’t pay him much attention. 

“What’re you building there?” He asked. 

“It’s an ell-phant,” said the new one. 

“Best elephant I’ve ever seen,” said Crawly. If he inspired enough ill-guided pride, the new one might get on the other threes’ nerves, and they’d take it out on each other. 

“Thanks. My brother makes really good ell-phants.”

“I think your elephant is better than your brother’s. Much better.”

“I don’t think so. My mum and dad and Aziraphale say our ell-phants are both good.”

Or not. Of course it was the blasted Angel’s fault. 

“I don’t think the Angel knows what he’s talking about.”

“The what?”

Ugh. “Aziraphale,” said Crawly grudgingly. “I don’t think Aziraphale knows what he’s talking about. He’s a right liar, that one.”

“What’s that?”

“Never mind.”

The new one nodded sagely and added another stick to the elephant. It looked less like an elephant and more like… something spiky. He’d seen spiky things in the Garden, hadn’t he? Name had something to do with pigs. And plants. Pork trees. Bush hogs. Something like that. 

“I’m Abel,” said the new one. “What’s your name?”

“Oh, you don’t need to know my name.” If the Angel had proof he’d spoken to the new one, he’d have a pissed off Angel to deal with, and that, he’d found, was not enjoyable. 

“I know everyone’s name,” said Abel. “So I need to know yours.”

“No, you really don’t.”

“If I let you help build my ell-phant, will you tell me your name?”

Crawly frowned. Asking questions over and over was a bit annoying, wasn’t it? And not taking no for an answer was groundwork for bigger sins later on. Start small. If he encouraged this, maybe next time he could do something more substantial. “Maybe.”

“Here,” said the new one, handing him a leaf. “It’s an ear. Put it on, then tell me your name.”

Crawly put the leaf-turned-ear on the elephant. “I’m Crawly.”

The new one beamed. That made his stomach turn too. Blasted human body.


	8. 3940 BC - Eastern Africa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for off-screen violence and minor injury.

_3940 BC. Eastern Africa, home of Adam, Eve, and their sons._

Aziraphale was beside himself. The nerve! It was bad enough having to put up with Crawly when he was doing little things, like convincing Adam to kill one more bird than was strictly necessary for dinner. This was quite another. 

He could still hear soft sounds of tears coming from the tent. Cain had actually hit Abel. And it was all Crawly’s fault! Aziraphale’s last inquiry to Heaven as to what to do about the Demon had gone unanswered. Well. They were probably busy adjusting to the existence of humans, still. Assigning bodies and all that. 

He’d just have to go up again. But first, he needed to find Crawly, the snake. 

The forest was dense, and damp, and hot, and though Aziraphale’s body knew better than to do something so vulgar and un-Angelic as sweat, he was far from comfortable, which only added to his already considerable ire. 

“Crawly!” He yelled as soon as he was far enough from the humans’ home. “Crawly, you come here right now. I need to have a word with you!”

The bushes to his left rustled, and out slithered a snake which materialized into a gangly, brown-skinned Demon looking positively cool, in both senses of the word. “Hello, Angel. I heard you wanted to see me?”

Aziraphale balled his fists. “My name is Aziraphale.”

“I—”

“Don’t, Demon. You will listen to me.” He was faintly aware of himself beginning to glow. Oh dear. He was rather angry, wasn’t he? “Cain hit Abel! What could you possibly have to say for yourself?”

“I’m a Demon. What did you expect? And also, I didn’t control Cain. He didn’t do anything he didn’t already want to do. Heard from Heaven lately?”

Crawly’s demeanor was unfamiliar. Perhaps the Demon was actually frightened. Served him right. 

In fact, it might do well to intimidate him further. Put the fear of God into him, if you will. “You should know, I’ve been to Heaven.”

“What for?”

“I’ve requested certain… tools to be put at my disposal. Strictly for dealing with Demons, of course.” Technically speaking, he hadn’t requested, yet. But he ought to. And he would, if Crowley crossed the line again.

“What tools?”

Abel was crying, and he would have bruises. Never mind that Cain seemed genuinely regretful. A child had been hurt and it was Crawly’s fault. 

“Smiting.”

“Oh.” Crawly’s complexion turned ashen. “Smiting. Like… in the War?”

“Strictly for dealing with Demons. This is God’s domain, and I will not have you corrupting Her humans. Certainly not to the point of violence.”

“I… right. Okay. So that’s that then.”

“Indeed it is.”

“Angel—”

“Aziraphale.”

“Right, yeah. Erm. Anyway. Won’t happen again.”

Were Demons meant to do that? Whatever the case, Aziraphale couldn’t be bothered to care. It was none of his concern what Demons were or were not meant to do. He was an Angel. “Good. If it does, there will be consequences, I’m afraid. Which I of course don’t wish to make use of. I am here to protect and guide the humans toward the good, and if you are preventing me from doing that, I cannot very well sit idly by.”

“No, I guess you can’t.”

Crawly looked positively meek now. Good. 

“Well, then. No violence, Crawly.”

“Understood.”

“Good.”

Crawly grimaced. “D’you have to?”

“Good,” said Aziraphale again. 

Crawly groaned. “Are we done now?”

“I think we are.”

“Fantastic. See you around.” Crawly snapped his fingers and vanished.

Aziraphale stood for a moment. He’d just threatened someone. A Demon, to be sure. But… he’d threatened him! Oh dear. Then again. There wasn’t a strict non-threatening policy, so far as he’d heard. And if it kept the humans safe from Crawly’s malicious influence... Well, that served the Plan, didn’t it? 

With any luck, Heaven would get back to him soon and he’d have this whole mess sorted. Perhaps they could have a word with Crawly’s superiors in Hell and establish a strict no-encouraging-violence rule. Yes, that would do nicely. Crawly wouldn’t be able to incite violence between humans and he wouldn’t be driven to threats. Unpleasant, every bit of it. Then, they could put this whole nasty business behind them and get on with it. 


	9. 3927 BC - Eastern Africa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to torture.

_3927 BC. Eastern Africa._

Crawly was having trouble. Not really severe trouble, mind, just. Trouble. For one thing, it was more than a little odd, popping in to see the humans exclusively to tempt them. Especially with the Angel telling them he wasn’t to be trusted. 

Which was true, obviously. He was a Demon, after all. Who’d trust a Demon? 

But that didn’t make it any easier. Any time he got close, the Angel would spot him and start scowling. Though he hadn’t gotten permission from Heaven to start smiting yet, it would seem. Which was more than a little odd. After all, they’d been… very responsive, when he was around. So responsive, in fact, as to damn Angels who were so unfaithful as to ask questions. 

Anyway. 

At the moment, Crawly was laying on a boulder in a clearing. It was hard and a bit poky in places, but warm and comfortable. He spent so much of his time in shady undergrowth right now that it made for an enjoyable change of pace.

But the thing was, even if the Angel wasn’t around—which he was, more often than not—the humans had gotten it into their heads to start chasing him away themselves. Abel had stopped listening to him. The last time he’d even got close to their home, Cain pulled out the flaming sword.

Which the Angel still hadn’t taken back, as Crawly had reminded him on more than one occasion. The Angel just looked away and changed the subject. 

In Crawly’s most recent message from Hell, which had consisted of Hastur appearing unannounced and staring at him for half an hour with occasional breaks for conversation, he’d been informed in no uncertain terms that the humans had been too good lately and he’d better show results or he’d find himself back in Hell. 

Crawly really didn’t want to go back to Hell. As annoying as the Angel was, and as much as the humans blindly followed the Angel’s authority, it was still better than watching a torture contest with Ligur, or going to a group retelling of the Fall, for morale. Crawly just wasn’t one for group activities, even when they revolved around violence. 

Especially when they revolved around violence, if he was being honest. Which he wasn’t. He was a Demon. Loved a good… flaying. Yup. Crawly really enjoyed flayings. And stabbings. And maulings.

And that was why he was here, on a boulder in the middle of nowhere. Well. It wasn’t. The other bit was why he was here. He was here to work out how to keep influencing the humans toward evil without so much as talking to them. 

Blasted Angel. 

It wasn’t like they weren’t doing any evil. Adam and Eve had a row over the disappearing wool last month, after all. And Abel was definitely encouraging his sheep to eat Cain’s plants when he was in a bad mood. And Cain was still chasing off any small beings that entered his garden. 

So it wasn’t all good. Granted, if it were, Crawly would probably be experiencing a lot more pain right now. But all the same, it was something. And there was a pattern: humans did more evil when they were in a bad mood. 

He couldn’t miracle them into a bad mood, though. He’d tried. Mostly to get the Angel off his back. But he’d tried, and they just sneezed. 

Funny things, sneezes. 

Although… there were _things_ that put them in bad moods. Stuff going missing, for one. Animals where they didn’t want them. 

Crawly sat up. Maybe that was it. If he miracled more animals into Cain’s garden, Cain would chase them off more. If more wool disappeared, maybe he could get Adam and Eve to fight over it again. And then, he wasn’t strictly encouraging violence. Which of course served only to appease the Angel and keep him from being smote. Not being smote was the only purpose of not encouraging violence. 

And the best bit was, it really built on his earlier work, didn’t it? The whole point of the eat-the-apple bit was to give humans a choice. He could just… encourage them a bit toward evil. 

Win-win. 

Crawly grinned. The Angel wouldn’t see this coming.


	10. 3916 BC - Eastern Africa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence, minor character discorporation, and references to torture.

_3916 BC. Eastern Africa, home of Adam, Eve, and their sons._

Something was wrong. Aziraphale was sure of it. There was someone here, and it wasn’t Eve or Adam or Cain or Abel. Or Crawly, for that matter, though that also counted as something wrong. 

No, there was definitely a newcomer, and it couldn’t be a human, and it wasn’t an Angel, which meant it was a Demon, and that was, by definition, bad. Which meant he had to do something about it, and he found he didn’t want to. He was sitting in Cain’s garden, after all, and it was rather pleasant. 

Oh, well. He got to his feet. “I’m just going to take a stroll now, dear boy,” he said to Cain, who was doing something in the dirt a few feet away. “Don’t mind me.”

“Should I tell Mum you’ll be missing dinner?”

“Oh, I hope not.” He didn’t eat, after all, but the conversation was lovely. “Erm. Well, I might be a bit late, but don’t wait up.”

“Yeah,” said Cain, apparently very intent upon his dirt. He was a wonderful boy. 

Aziraphale walked away from the garden in the general direction of the presence, which seemed to be somewhere in the forest. It didn’t take long before he smelled something strange. Oh dear. Something—rather like excrement? Definitely a Demon, it would seem. How unpleasant. 

He stopped behind a tree and peered slightly around it. There were two Demons. One was Crawly. One was… not Crawly. Disturbingly pale, with some kind of amphibian on their head and skin like they were ill. 

“I’m telling you, I have it under control,” said Crawly. “I’ve got a system these days, and if you just walk in like that, you’ll screw it up.”

“That’s the point,” said the other Demon.

“Yeah, I mean, you’ll… er… the Angel will discorporate you.”

“Will he now?”

“Eh… probably. He doesn’t like violence. Threatened to smite me once. I wouldn’t cross him if I were you. Not obviously, anyway.”

“You’re no fun,” said the other Demon. 

“No, I’m effective. Ask Dagon. Cain killed a bird last week because it was picking his berries. Eve’s been angry and not talking to anyone about it. So’s Adam. Actually, they’ve been angry at each other and not talking about it. That’s worse.”

“It is?”

“Probably. Anyway, the point is, don’t mess with my system, Hastur.”

Hastur was the newcomer’s name, apparently. Aziraphale decided he didn’t like Hastur.

“I’m bored,” said Hastur.

“Then go have another—er—torture-off. How about that? Find a nice under-Demon, and you can. Have at it.”

Disgusting! Was that what Demons got up to in Hell? 

Although. Perhaps he ought to do something. 

He stepped out from behind the tree. “Pardon me. I couldn’t help but overhear.”

Two Demons turned to look at Aziraphale. Crawly took an unsubtle step away. The other one—Hastur, it would seem—smiled. “This is the Angel who’s been thwarting you? You’re a coward, Crawly.”

How rude. “He’s rather not.” said Aziraphale mildly. “He has been trying to tempt the humans, constantly. It’s quite irritating. I am Aziraphale. And I would kindly request that you leave my humans alone.”

“No,” said Hastur. 

“No?”

“No.” 

“I will be inclined to stop you,” said Aziraphale. “It wouldn’t be sporting, two of you and one of me. No, I think I’d have to even things out a bit. Restore balance, if you will.” He could tell Heaven that, couldn’t he?

“No,” said Hastur again, and began walking toward the humans’ home. 

That just wouldn’t do. 

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and a rather large tree branch fell on Hastur’s head. The Demon collapsed. 

Crawly glanced warily at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale strolled over to the fallen Demon and knelt. They seemed to have left the body. Perhaps he should have chosen a smaller branch. Oh, well. 

“What did you do to him?” asked Crawly.

“Seem to have discorporated him, I’m afraid,” said Aziraphale. 

“Oh. Should I be running, then?”

“I think not,” said Aziraphale, straightening up. “Unless you’re planning on inciting violence, too.”

“I’m not,” said Crawly, uneasily. 

“Good.” Aziraphale paused. “He seemed rather unpleasant, didn’t he? Well. I’d best go. Have a lovely evening, Crawly."


	11. 3907 BC - Eastern Africa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to torture.

_3907 BC. Eastern Africa, home of Adam, Eve, and their sons._   
Crawly slithered into the humans’ area. It was night, so all four were sleeping. Seemed a strange thing to do, sleeping. He was thinking of trying it sometime, though. They seemed to enjoy it, after all. Though he wasn’t entirely sure if a Demon inhabiting a human body _could_ sleep. 

At Cain’s garden, he uprooted a few saplings and coaxed animals in. By Abel’s sheep, he summoned a small colony of malodorous beetles. In the camp, he frayed the edges of one of the tents, and made his way toward the cooking area. 

The cooking area was particularly risky, as locations went. Though the Angel had a tent at the humans’ insistence, he of course did not sleep, and it was anyone’s guess whether he’d be out walking or sitting by the fire. However, when the Angel wasn’t haunting the cooking area, it was a particularly good place to instigate chaos. Tonight, Crawly was hoping to make some palm wine spoil a few days earlier than was strictly natural. It promised to have excellent payoff. 

The cooking area was empty. Crawly smiled, as much as a snake is able, and was preparing to spoil the wine when there was a flash of light and sound, followed by the unmistakable sense of a divine presence.

“There you are, fiend,” said the Angel. 

Crawly shifted to his human form for the sole purpose of groaning obnoxiously. “For Satan’s sake, can’t you let a Demon do his job?”

“No. I’m quite certain I can’t,” said the Angel. “Come on, then. Out.”

“Hell’s been on my back about it,” said Crawly. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”

“I’m afraid the answer is still very much ‘no,’ and if you don’t vacate the premises forthwith, I shall be forced to compel you to leave.”

Crawly frowned. “You’d do that? Discorporate me to stop me spoiling some wine?”

“So that’s what you were up to,” the Angel said, sounding pleased with himself. 

“Bollocks.”

“There’s really no need for that kind of language. And no, I don’t intend to discorporate you.”

“How’re you going to make me leave, then?” asked Crawly. Could an Angel just… miracle him someplace else? That sounded more than a little dangerous, as far as he was concerned.

“I was rather thinking like this,” said the Angel, striding forward, spinning him around, and pushing him back the way he came.

Crawly stumbled and scrambled to keep up with the determined, unexpectedly strong Angel pushing him. “Hey! I get it! I can walk.”

“Good.” He released Crawly’s shoulders and fell in step beside him. “You understand, of course, that I’m obligated to see you out.”

“Yeah. Right. Okay.” Crowley shuddered. He could feel the Angel’s divine energy all over him. Eurgh.

“Wonderful.” The Angel beamed. 

They walked in silence through the sheep pasture, but in the garden, Crawly had a thought. “Angel?”

“Yes, Crawly?”

“How long have you been trying to do that?”

“Oh, a few months now, I suppose. I pop in and out. Though I get distracted from time to time and forget to pop in.”

Crawly grinned. “Good of you, forgetting to pop in.”

The Angel gasped comically. “Crawly!”

He laughed. “Demon, remember? I’m sure it didn’t make much of a difference, in the grand scheme of things. I don’t do temptations every night, after all.”

“You don’t need to remind me, fiend. And whyever not?”

“Things I do take a few days to pay off. It’s a long game, Angel. I come in, set things up, and get a few days to myself while you deal with the fallout. Efficient. I’m thinking of putting together a speech to explain how to do it.” Tempting humans was a brand-new task, after all. Lots of opportunities to be had, instructing Demons how to tempt. 

Not to mention that it would give him an opportunity to wax poetic at Beelzebub for a change. Not that zze was especially poetic to begin with. Demons weren’t very good at that sort of thing. But the intention was definitely there, and that’s what counted in these situations. 

“Oh dear. I really ought to be doing something more to stop you.”

“Nah. After all, if you discorporate me, I’ll just… go back to Hell and tell them all how to do it even better.”

“I suppose. What you’re saying, then, is that discorporating you would cause more temptations in the end?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Not to mention, they’d be better quality, more efficient temptations. And possibly more violent. A lot of Demons really enjoy that sort of thing.”

“And you don’t?” asked Aziraphale, softly.

“Oh.” Crawly blinked. “Erm. No, I mean, I really like violence. Big violence-er, me. Always calling for more violence in Hell. I like a good flaying, y’know. All that. Screaming. Er.”

“Indeed,” said the Angel. 

Bless it. 

They reached the edge of Cain’s garden, and the Angel turned to Crawly. “Well, this is it for me. Can’t leave camp on foot or they’ll know in the morning, and Eve is a terrible worrier.”

“Right. Okay. See you around, Aziraphale.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that wraps the first century! Only fifty-nine left to go...


	12. 3896 BC - Eastern Africa

_3896 BC. Eastern Africa, home of Adam, Eve, and their sons._

“And how are you and Adam faring?” asked Aziraphale, hands clasped behind his back as he and Eve turned to stroll back toward the humans’ home.

“Well, I think. The food stores have been steady recently, which helps quite a bit. Thanks to Cain—his garden has been so consistent lately.”

“Oh, indubitably. He’s a wonderful boy.”

“I know.” She smiled. “And Abel, too. Adam especially enjoys the variety.”

“He does, I should think.” Of the humans, Adam seemed especially eager to drink the milk Abel’s little herd provided. “And how are you, my dear?”

“Very well. I’ve been thinking about the Garden less. Adjusted to life out here, you know?”

“I do,” said Aziraphale. “Or rather, I can imagine. Had I been in a utopian garden for some time in an earlier part of my existence, how I might be feeling having been outside of it for some time now. Or thereabouts.”

Eve laughed. “You know you’re very funny sometimes, Aziraphale?”

“I do hope so.”

They walked in companionable silence for a time, and then Eve said, “I wonder what happened to the other one?”

“The other one?” 

“You know. Erm. Crawly, I think? With the striking eyes? He seemed friendly. And I think we weren’t particularly kind to him before.”

“Ah. Him. I simply haven’t the faintest,” said Aziraphale a mite too quickly for it to be believable. 

“That’s unfortunate. It would be nice to have more people around.”

“Crawly’s not— well. I think he has his own… comrades, so to speak. And I really think he’s not to be trusted.” Crawly wasn’t ‘people,’ not really. No more than Aziraphale was. But he couldn’t very well tell Eve that. 

“Really? You think there are more people than the six of us?” Eve sounded amused at the prospect, steadfastly ignoring his comment on trustworthiness.

“I didn’t say that,” said Aziraphale glumly. “I’m not entirely sure what I meant, I’m afraid. Perhaps he… found some other pursuit.” He really ought to be encouraging Eve. After all, if Crawly were another human, it would be good for her to be concerned for him. And she thought he was human, so it was good she was concerned. Hmm. 

“Maybe,” said Eve. “It would be lonely, though. It might be time to give him another chance. We were rude to him last time, after all.”

“You’re right,” Aziraphale said. “He might be quite lonely.” If he were human. It didn’t seem quite right for a Demon to be lonely. 

They emerged from the trees into Cain’s garden. The boy in question was… oh dear. 

Cain stood on the edge of the garden, leaning on a post and speaking animatedly with a tall, thin figure who was undoubtedly Crawly. 

“Cain! Crawly!” Eve walked over to them, beckoning Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale huffed, but joined them. 

“We were just talking about you,” said Eve. “Where have you been, Crawly?”

“Oh, you know. Here and there. Stirring up trouble.” He winked at Aziraphale. “Thought I’d come and see how my favorite humans were getting on.”

“Never better,” said Aziraphale in a tone he hoped implied that they were better specifically when the Demon’s human form was absent. 

“Crawly was just telling me some of his pest-control methods,” said Cain. “Picked them up from the neighboring tribe, he says.”

“The— oh, my. The _neighboring tribe_ , Crawly?”

“Oh yeah. You know the one.” Crawly grinned.

There was no neighboring tribe! It was a rather important aspect of being the first humans in Creation. What could he possibly hope to accomplish by claiming the existence of decidedly nonexistent humans?

“Well, it’s good to have you back,” said Eve.

Aziraphale relished Crawly’s grimace at that. 

“Would you like to come to dinner?” she asked. 

“That sounds lovely,” said the Demon. 


	13. 3885 BC - Eastern Africa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for on-screen murder, minor character death, and violence.

_3885 BC. Eastern Africa, home of Adam, Eve, and Cain._

Crawly heard it before he saw it. There were shouts, and the sound of a heavy blow, and silence. He’d been sunning himself on a rock in his serpent form, and he had the sense to shift back and sit up just in time to see Abel fall to the ground. Oh, no. 

He’d overheard them arguing, of course. Everyone had. But he’d assumed it was the usual, ‘my-sacrifice-was-better-than-yours’ brotherly spat. Apparently not. 

He probably should’ve guessed when She got directly involved, but… well. He hadn’t. 

Although, given that She was involved… he hurried back behind his boulder and made himself as small as possible while still being able to hear sounds. Which was really quite small indeed. 

Harsh light shone, light he could see even through his closed eyes. That was Her, all right. Her presence was hot and holy and unforgiving. He could hear Cain speaking faintly as well. 

Then there was silence again. Crawly transformed back to his human form. His skin felt tight and raw. 

He moved closer. Cain had fallen to his knees beside his brother’s body, and appeared to be weeping quietly. That was the natural reaction. Probably.

Good grief, that was a lot of blood. 

Crawly looked away. “Right.” He should probably be encouraging Cain, shouldn’t he. Demon, and all that. By all rights, he should be happy right now. “That was. Something.”

Cain looked up at him, face tear-stained, hands blood-stained. “I’ve gone from Her.”

“Yeah. Just a bit. Listen—”

A wave of divine presence washed over him, not nearly as bad as the one before, but still painful in his current state. 

Crawly turned to look at the Angel. “D’you mind?”

“Cain. Leave, now,” he said, ignoring Crawly entirely.

“Yes. Yes, I’m leaving,” said Cain, voice breaking. He stood and began walking away.

They watched him go until he disappeared into the trees. Then, Aziraphale looked at Crawly. “You.” His voice shook.

“Me. What about me?”

“I knew I should have made you leave the second I found you in that—that bush. And now look! Abel—”

“Hey, wait, hang on. This wasn’t me,” said Crawly. “I was just over—”

“I’m not here to listen, _Demon_.” Aziraphale was glowing faintly, the air crackling around them both. “Abel is dead, and it’s your doing. You’ve been tempting Cain for decades now, convincing him to chase away the animals in his garden, convincing him to kill them. And it’s been leading up to this, hasn’t it?”

Crawly shivered. “Aziraphale, I swear, I didn’t— I wasn’t— not this.” Not Abel. 

“He’s dead,” repeated Aziraphale quietly, staring past Crawly for a moment. “Oh, good Lord. I’m going to— Eve, and Adam.”

Crawly’s stomach twisted. They’d be devastated. 

He forced himself back to the present. Abel, on the ground, and Aziraphale standing before him. “Listen. Aziraphale. This wasn’t me. Cain…” Cain had murdered his brother. “This was Cain. You have to believe me.”

“I don’t have to do anything of the sort.” Aziraphale tugged his robes and straightened up, the crackle of divine energy subsiding slightly. “You are a Demon, Crawly. I am an Angel, and it’s about time I remembered that. I should not have allowed you to remain here, and I absolutely will not do as you tell me. Now. Your interference has killed Abel, and I am quite put out. I kindly suggest you leave, before I have the opportunity to do something foolish.”

Crawly exhaled slowly. “Right. Yeah. Okay. So I’ll just…”

“Go. Indeed. And tell your associates that the Principality Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, is not to be trifled with. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yeah.” Crawly began backing away. “I’ll just… bye.” He turned and ran.


	14. 3884 BC - Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for nudity, referenced torture, and referenced murder.

_3884 BC. Heaven._

Aziraphale waited. It seemed as though his communications had been overlooked, so he’d elected to pay a visit in person as soon as Adam and Eve seemed stable enough to leave alone for a bit. Time passed strangely in Heaven, after all. 

It was nice, being back in Heaven. Calming. Consistent. It hadn’t changed one bit since he left to guard the Garden. Everything crafted of white limestone, ringed in a balcony overlooking the Earth. It was a soothing contrast to Earth. All that… mess, and hardship, and death. He was beginning to think perhaps it would have been better had he let someone else take the assignment. 

Adam and Eve would worry, though. They needed someone else, with both the boys gone. Oh, dear. 

“Aziraphale,” an extracorporeal voice boomed from everywhere and nowhere at once. “I hope you have not been waiting long.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” said Aziraphale. “Only, I was expecting to have a corporeal meeting? If I was misinformed, that’s perfectly all right, of course, only it’ll be a moment while I switch over.”

“I seem to have forgotten. Hilarious of me to have made such a mistake.” The air in the room rippled, and a large, mostly human-shaped Angel appeared. “Better now?”

“Still a few too many eyes. Lovely color, though,” added Aziraphale quickly.

Some of the eyes vanished. 

“Close enough,” said Aziraphale. Would it be rude to mention that humans had been clothed since the Fall from Eden? Most likely. “Well, you see, it’s about Demons.”

“What about them? They are not causing you trouble, are they?”

“They rather are, I’m afraid. It would seem that the opposition has assigned a counterpart to me, on Earth. And—well, I have had a few… difficulties with the Demon Crawly. He tempted Cain to murder, you know.”

“An adversary. This is excellent news.”

“It is?”

“It is part of the Divine Plan,” said Gabriel. 

“Oh. I see.” The Divine Plan had said Crawly would be on Earth with him? How odd. Still, one must not question the Almighty. Perhaps opposition would strengthen his service of good. Yes, that must be it. “In that case, I was wondering if I might make a minor recommendation?”

“Recommendations can be made. They are accepted at the will of the Lord.”

“Of course. Erm. I was thinking—given that there is at least one Demon on Earth, and that Demons are inherently evil, and that our purpose is to fight evil… I would recommend that we allow smiting. Just for Demons, obviously. They’re frightfully tricky, not to mention fond of torture, and—”

“A wonderful idea, Principality Aziraphale,” said Gabriel. “In fact, Sandalphon mentioned the same thing just a few decades ago.”

“Did they now?” Aziraphale was not familiar with Sandalphon. 

“Yes, they did. I just said that.”

“You did. Sorry, carry on.”

“Because both you and Sandalphon have recommended reinstating smiting privileges, it seems likely that they will indeed be reinstated. I will confer with the other Archangels and with the Voice of God, and you will be notified within the millenium.”

“Within… the millenium?”

“That is what I said,” said Gabriel.

“You did say that, didn’t you?” Aziraphale began fiddling with the hem of his robe again. 

“I did say that.”

“Sorry. Within the millenium. I was just… confirming.” Aziraphale nodded crisply. “If there’s nothing you’re in need of, I think I had better be getting back to Earth. Adam and Eve are terribly cut-up over Cain and Abel, you see. I need to be… guarding.”

“Your dedication to the humans is commendable,” said Gabriel.

“It is?”

“I am commending you. This is a commendation.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“You may return to Earth,” said Gabriel, returning to their noncorporeal form, in full this time. 

Aziraphale shielded the eyes of his human body. “Thank you. I’ll just… be going then.” 


	15. 3870 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for referenced torture.

_3870 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia._

Crawly had made an important discovery. One that could give Hell a real edge over Heaven if he played his cards right. One that would make him question everything if he didn’t already do just that. 

There were more humans on Earth than just Adam, Eve, and Cain. 

Loads more, in fact. 

After he left Adam and Eve, he’d only spent a week or thereabouts walking before he found a whole tribe of other humans! More humans than he’d seen in his life! 

He’d stayed a few days, enjoying their hospitality, before leaving and going straight down to Hell for advice. And also to see the looks on all of their faces. 

Beelzebub had been annoyed. Zze’d rolled zzer eyes and spent a solid week grumbling at God for misleading everyone. Dagon, on the other had, had been absolutely livid, going on and on about how this revelation changed their entire system for keeping track of humans. Ligur had been excited, or as close to it as Ligur got, asking Crawly if the new humans looked like good candidates for dismemberment. Hastur hadn’t believed Crawly. That had been unpleasant. 

So, after what ended up being solidly more than a decade in Hell, Crawly was now back on Earth with instructions to tempt humans as quickly as possible, and overwhelm Heaven with sheer numbers. 

It had been a few months since he’d been back, most of which he’d spent walking. 

There were so many humans, though, that was the thing. He’d encountered dozens, if not hundreds! The last village he traveled through directed him to a ‘city,’ and said there were thousands there. 

He crested a ridge and stopped short. The villagers had been _right_ , Satan help him. Buildings of mud brick filled the valley, and he could see hundreds of humans from where he stood, just going about their business. A hill rose in the distance, topped with a lone structure. A river—the Buranuna,* the humans called it—separated him from most of the buildings.

(* Some millenia hence, the Greeks would call it the Euphrates.)

Crawly grinned and walked down to the river, where people with rafts travelled back and forth across the water. On both sides, people waded in marshes with nets and what might have been farming tools. 

At the bank, he found a dense patch of rushes, pushed inside, and switched to his serpent form before emerging from the rushes and swimming across the river. 

On the other side, he shifted back to his human form and dried his robes with a snap of his fingers before striding out into the city. 

So many humans! He tapped one on the shoulder. “Hey,” he began.

The human looked at him, frowning. “Hi. Are you… all right?”

“Me? Oh. Yeah, I’m all right. Why?”

“Your eyes are a bit… odd.”

“Right, yeah.” There was an odd, squelchy feeling in the vicinity of his diaphragm. It wasn’t _his_ fault his eyes were like this. Well, maybe it was a bit, but it wasn’t his choice, anyway. “Erm. I was wondering what this place is called.”

The human gave him an incredulous look. “You don’t know what it’s called?”

“Nope, ’fraid not. New in town. Enlighten me.” Crawly gave what he hoped was a friendly smile.

“This is Uruk. Biggest city north of Eridu,” said the human. “What are you doing here, if you don’t know where you are?”

“Oh, you know. Poking around. I got bored with my old village. Listen, would you happen to know how someone could get familiar with the city? I need to get my bearings.”

The human frowned, then shrugged, extending a hand. “I’m Naram-Sin.”

“Crawly,” said Crawly. Should he duplicate the gesture? It seemed friendly. 

Naram-Sin took Crawly’s hand and grasped it warmly. “May the gods Inanna and Anu keep you in good health.” They released his hand. “Crawly. That’s an interesting name. Where did you come from?”

“West, and far south. Months’ journey.” Inanna and Anu? Were there other gods here? He hadn’t thought that was possible. More to the point, though— would temptations here do anything? 

He’d have to find out. Ideally without Hell knowing.

“Months! Few here have travelled for months,” said Naram-Sin. “If you’re not too busy, my friends would like to hear the stories of your travels.”

“Your friends?”

“Yes, of course. We sit in the field by the river to talk and share food and wine. Also, Dabitum and Iddissin will be taken with your eyes, I think.”

“Will they now?” asked Crawly. “Must have good taste.”

Naram-Sin laughed. “Come with me. I’ll bring a jug of palm wine, and you can meet them. We’ll tell you everything you need to know about Uruk.”


	16. 3858 BC - Eastern Africa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to murder.

_3858_ _BC. Eastern Africa, home of Adam, Eve, and Seth._

Aziraphale patted a sheep on its head and turned to Seth. “What do you think, then?”

“I think this field looks excellent,” said Seth. 

The boy was sixteen. Adam and Eve had decided a year or two prior that it was time for him to raise sheep as Abel had, and he’d taken to it rather well, in Aziraphale’s opinion. Though he was a bit miffed to have been assigned to watch the boy. 

“Go on,” said Seth to the sheep. “Go on! Aziraphale wants to sit down; can’t you see it on his face?”

Aziraphale chuckled as the sheep pushed past them into the field, spreading out to find the best spots to eat. “Thank you, dear boy. I didn’t realize I was quite that obvious.”

“Only because I know you,” said Seth. “Also, you always want to sit and talk.”

Aziraphale sat in the grass. “Do your parents think that too?” It wasn’t a very good thing for one to think of an Angel, was it?

“No,” said Seth, sitting down as well. “Mum thinks you’re a hard worker. And to be fair, you do get a lot of work done. You just don’t… work.”

Well, no. He did miracle it, he supposed. But of course, Seth didn’t know that. “Ah, you just don’t see me working.”

“When—” Seth paused, cocking his head. “Aziraphale?”

“Yes?”

“Can you hear that?”

Aziraphale closed his eyes to listen. It sounded like a voice. “Is that Eve?”

“No,” said Seth with certainty, standing. “I know her voice. That’s not Mum. Come on!”

Aziraphale stood and ran after the boy, who was already sprinting in the direction of the voice. 

As they approached the next hill, they stopped. There was a human standing on top of it. 

But there _couldn’t_ be. 

They didn’t have the presence of an Angel, though. Or of a Demon, for that matter, though he was fairly certain he’d made it clear Demons were not welcome here.

Seth turned to Aziraphale, grinning. “You didn’t tell me there were more of us!” He waved to the newcomer. “Hi! Come down! Can we talk to you?”

The strange human looked behind them, and was joined by two more. 

Three more humans!

The new humans descended the hill to stand in front of Seth and Aziraphale. They were dressed differently to the humans he’d known before, in yellow fabric that didn’t appear to be wool, their hair in coils down their backs. 

The first human to come over the hill, taller than Seth and shorter than Aziraphale, ducked their head in greeting. “Hello. I am Azura. These are my sisters, Luluwa and Balbira.”

Seth returned the greeting, and Aziraphale fumbled to follow suit. 

How were there more humans? Where did they come from? Did God create more and neglect to mention it to him? Did the other Angels know?

“I didn’t realize there were more of us,” said Seth. “People, I mean.”

Azura frowned. “There are more than forty in our tribe. How many in yours?”

Forty! Forty other humans, and no one had seen fit to tell him. Or perhaps they’d overlooked it. Perhaps the other Angels were busy watching over all these new humans. 

“Four,” said Seth. “Just me, my father Adam, my mother Eve, and Aziraphale. I had two brothers before I was born, and another one like Aziraphale, but my brother Cain killed my brother Abel. So Cain and the one like Aziraphale both left.”

Azura blinked. “That’s… a lot.”

Aziraphale turned to Seth. “My dear boy, Crawly was not like me in the slightest.”

“I mean he wasn’t related to us,” said Seth. “He just appeared. Like you.”

“Yes, but—”

“You should come with us,” said Balbira. “It sounds like you have lots of stories to tell.”

“Someone has to talk to my parents,” said Seth. “If I didn’t return, they’d worry. Aziraphale, can you bring them?”

“I—well.” Seth seemed set on staying here. And once Aziraphale was in the trees, he could skip most of the walk there. And Adam and Eve really would worry… “Yes, of course. I’ll be back in a shake of lamb’s tail!”

He turned and began walking quickly to go fetch Adam and Eve. Something very strange was going on. 


	17. 3847 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

_3847 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia._

Cities were ideal for temptations. There were people with places to be and tasks to do everywhere, and it was virtually impossible for someone to know everyone. All this made it very easy for a Demon to go places and talk to people they weren’t supposed to without major problems. 

Crawly was having an excellent time.

Although, there were a few strange things. For one, the humans here died far more quickly than the ones Crawly had encountered before. Though Adam and Eve had been alive for more than a hundred years when he left them, humans here died after seventy or eighty, or even earlier. 

Another strange thing was the simple fact that there were humans here. He still hadn’t quite gotten over that. Not to mention the fact that they worshipped other gods! Though that was far from being a problem. Seemed to him as though he ought to be encouraging it, in fact. 

He did have some worries that it would exempt them from judgement. After all, why should the Almighty get to judge them on Her terms when they didn’t even know the terms to begin with. He kept that concern to himself, though. After all, not knowing the terms hadn’t kept him from Falling. Why should these humans be any different?

Crawly lounged on a bench in Naram-Sin’s home, holding a cup of palm wine he hadn’t had any of. Why drink it himself when he could subtly move it to the humans’ cups and encourage further intoxication? Seemed an awful lot of trouble. Especially when he wasn’t entirely sure he could become intoxicated, or even imbibe fluids at all. 

“And then,” said Naram-Sin, “and then, he left. Just like that! Not so much as a glance.”

“Seems a bit rude if you ask me,” said Crawly. “Giving you sub-par bricks, then up and leaving.”

“I know,” said Naram-Sin moodily, staring into his cup. “But I can’t prove they were sub-par, now they’re all mixed in with Lugalra’s bricks. And I still have to pay him.”

“What if you gave him sub-par grain for his sub-par bricks?” Crawly tried to slur his words to mimic the lilt of intoxication. Bit difficult, that. 

Naram-Sin looked at him, frowning. “Oh, I don’t know. What if he could tell?”

“Pour it directly into his… whatsit. Grain reception. Refectory? Receptacle? Container thing. Like he did with the bricks.”

“That,” said Naram-Sin, getting to his feet, “is the best idea you’ve had all night, my friend.” He swayed over to Crawly’s bench and sat down beside him. “You’re an excellent one, you know that?”

“I’m really not,” said Crawly.

Naram-Sin tried to lay down virtually on top of him, but he pushed the human away.

“Liar,” said Naram-Sin amiably. 

“Yes,” said Crawly honestly. He’d been trying to tempt Naram-Sin to evil for years now, in between various other experiments on people around Uruk. It was going slowly—a testament to Naram-Sin’s will to be good. 

It almost reminded him of the Angel. All that desire to be good. Ugh. Thankfully, Naram-Sin was finally loosening up. As this conversation was showing rather well. 

“How exactly do I get him sub-par grain?” asked Naram-Sin quietly, almost to himself. 

Crawly grinned. Benefits of tempting someone who was under the impression he was their friend: watching them come up with how to do evil themself. 

“Suppose I could get it wet,” mused Naram-Sin. “Or use the overripe stuff. Or bake it.”

“All very good options,” said Crawly. “As long as they’re not detectable.”

“I’ve got it!” Naram-Sin sat up, swiveling to look directly in Crawly’s face, spilling a few drops of palm wine in the process. The wine had the sense not to land on the floor. “I’ll fill in the bottom of the bowl.”

“The bowl?”

“For measuring the grain, of course. Those newfangled payment bowls with the slopey rims. The King got it into his head recently to use standard bowls for measuring payments of grain and oil, that sort of thing.”

“Oh yeah. I’ve seen those about,” said Crawly. He’d encouraged a statesman named Ennanum to argue against them. Standard quantities of payment were just too blessedly _fair_ , as far as he was concerned. “You’ll fill it in?”

“Yeah. Iddissin’s in manufacturing these days. Bet I could convince him to tweak one a bit.”

“Gotcha. Sounds like a plan if ever I heard one,” said Crawly, then leaned forward, transferring his wine into the main jug. “More wine?”


	18. 3839 BC - Eastern Africa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for misgendering and reference to murder.

_3839 BC. Eastern Africa, Azura’s Tribe._

“Aziraphale!” Eve called. “Come sit.”

Aziraphale turned to see Eve, Luluwa, and a few older women of the tribe sitting around the fire at the center of camp. 

“Hello,” said Aziraphale, joining the circle and settling into the sand. “Lovely night.”

“It is,” said Eve. 

“We were just discussing Seth and Azura,” said Luluwa. “I’m concerned about them.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said. “Why?”

“Are you joking?” Another woman asked. “They’re more than thirty years old, and don’t have any children.”

A few others murmured their agreement. 

“I’ve told you, I had Seth when I was one hundred and thirty. I’m not concerned,” said Eve, sounding put-upon. 

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably. He’d only just learned a few months earlier that most humans lived considerably shorter lives than Adam and Eve had. He still wasn’t entirely sure how there were other humans, but trusted it was part of the Plan. 

“No one in our tribe has lived to be older than one hundred and two, and much less had children at such an age,” said Luluwa. 

“You know,” said Aziraphale, “I wouldn’t worry about it.” He could keep Azura alive as long as she needed to live, and Seth too, if need be. He was certain of it. Provided they didn’t have a repeat of Abel. 

Poor boy. But, with Crawly gone, that promised not to be a problem.

Luluwa turned to look at him. “You sound certain of that, for a man.”

“I am not a man, I assure you,” said Aziraphale. 

“Aziraphale is as much a man as I,” said Eve, “and as much a woman as Adam. You can trust him.”

Luluwa raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t mean he understands these things. Particularly when, if you tell the truth, he’s been alive as long as you have.”

“Longer, I think,” said Eve. “He’s mentioned—”

“How about some dates,” said Aziraphale, drawing a small bag of fruit from what appeared to be somewhere in his robes but was in fact the aether. “Luluwa?” He offered them to her.

“Thank you,” she said, taking one. “What were you saying?”

“I don’t remember,” said Eve.* “Thank you, Aziraphale. At any rate, I’m not worried about Seth and Azura.”

(*Aziraphale expected his distraction to work, so it did. It did not, however, dispossess Eve of her memory, which was of an evening some seventy years earlier when, in trying to convince her and Adam not to trust Crawly, he mentioned having known the Demon before their Fall from Eden. This admission led to a very long, very awkward conversation in which he tried to convince them that there hadn’t been any humans before Eden—in accordance with his knowledge at the time—while maintaining that he knew Crawly of old, reiterating that Crawly was not to be trusted, and avoiding insinuating a closer relationship with Crawly than he had. It was not Aziraphale’s proudest moment, and he tried to ignore that it had happened when he could.)

“I don’t get it,” said Luluwa, shaking her head. 


	19. 3829 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

_3829 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia._

There was a knock at the door of Naram-Sin’s house. Crawly answered it. He’d been pretending to have a drink with the now-old Naram-Sin to celebrate his latest business venture. Naram-Sin had bought a load of excellent palm wine off a merchant from Ur using his now-standard half-filled bowls and grain that had been harvested too late mixed with the good grain. 

Crawly was feeling rather pleased with himself. 

He opened the door. “Hey. What’s up?”

Half a dozen angry-looking people stood outside. That wasn’t good. The one in front stepped forward, arms crossed. “Who’re you, exactly?”

“Crawly. Friend of Naram-Sin’s.”

“In that case, we’d like to have a word with your friend,” said the leader menacingly.

Crawly ignored the tone. “What for? And what’s your name? I’ll go ask him.”

“I am Zinu. These are some of my acquaintances—Sirum, Elmesum, Abi-Amurrum, Nis-inissu, and Uzalum.”

“May the gods Inanna and Anu keep you in good health,” said Crawly amiably. “What d’you want with Naram-Sin?”

Actually, he had a very good idea exactly what they wanted from Naram-Sin. He was almost certain he’d discussed every one of these people with him, though he hadn’t met them personally, and that meant Naram-Sin had almost certainly cheated them of something. 

“He’s swindled and cheated us,” said Zinu plainly. “My weaving, Sirum’s unicorn horns, Elmesum’s grain, Abi-Amurrum’s oil, Nis-inissu’s wine, and Uzalum’s copper.”

Oh, right. Nis-inissu was the one from Ur, wasn’t he? 

Blast. 

“Right. Those are some pretty serious accusations. Naram-Sin’s a good man, but I’ll bring him on out. Hang on.” He closed the door and went farther into the house.

On one hand, he could probably convince the disgruntled humans to leave. Bribe them, if he had to. He hadn’t had any luck using magic to compel people to comply around here, strangely enough. On the other, if he brought Naram-Sin out to confront them, it could go one of three ways, two of which worked out as far as Crawly was concerned. 

Naram-Sin could try to apologize, and they could get mad at him anyway. That would help redeem Naram-Sin, but get the other six in trouble, which was fine. He could try to defend himself, which would get him in deeper trouble, and get the other six mad, which was excellent. Worst-case scenario—or best, technically, but who cared—Naram-Sin apologized, and the others forgave him. Which wouldn’t do at all, but shouldn’t be a problem if Crawly played this right.

He swung around the door to find Naram-Sin reclining, cup of palm wine in hand. Nis-inissu’s wine, very likely. He probably shouldn’t find that was funny as it was. Except that he was a Demon. 

Crawly chuckled, entering the room properly. “Hey, Naram-Sin. Couple of guests here to see you.”

“Guests? At this hour?”

“Ehh… more like a bunch of annoyed business partners.” Crawly sat down across from Naram-Sin. The more unconcerned he acted, the more he hoped Naram-Sin would be worried. “More wine?”

“What? No. Who?”

“Can’t remember all of them,” said Crawly. “Zinu, was one, I think. Does Elmesum ring any bells?”

Naram-Sin stood abruptly, face turning ashen and grey. “How many of them?”

“’Bout six, I think. Why, are you worried?”

“I’m more than worried, my friend. Between them, they’ll ruin me!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited in September 2020 for continuity.


	20. 3821 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for fatal injury and implied minor character death.

_3821 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia._

Crawly strolled through a rundown part of Uruk. The mud-bricks were starting to crumble here, and the people were less finely clothed than in the areas he generally frequented. 

He had a purpose for being here, though. It had been eight years since Naram-Sin’s practices were discovered. Since then, Crawly had composed a slightly embellished report to recite to Dagon whenever they remembered he was on Earth, confiscated Naram-Sin’s house to live in while spiriting him to a cheaper home in a rundown part of Uruk, and spent a lot of time tempting various strangers around the city. 

The night before, however, a messenger from Dabitum had arrived to inform him that Naram-Sin had had an accident and was laid up in bed, potentially not to survive.

Seemed rude not to visit his longest-term temptation to date before he died. 

Longest-term, that is, unless one counted Adam and Eve and their sons. But Crawly tried not to think about them, so that didn’t count.

He stopped a kid to ask for directions, and they directed him to a rundown house at the end of a row. He went up to knock on the door. 

Iddissin opened it, looking sorrowful. 

Crawly swallowed. “Hey. Is Naram-Sin here?”

“Yeah.” Iddissin eyed Crawly suspiciously. “Come on in. He’s been wanting to see you.” He stepped aside.   
Crawly entered the house, glancing quickly over the single room. It was relatively bare. Far more so than Naram-Sin’s old house in the heart of the city, for sure. 

Naram-Sin lay on a bed in the corner. “Crawly,” he said, voice gravelly. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to see me,” said Crawly, going to kneel next to the bed. 

Naram-Sin coughed. “Iddissin. Leave us for a moment.”

Iddissin nodded and left the house. 

Naram-Sin turned his head to look at Crawly. “Hello.”

“Hi,” said Crawly uncertainly. 

“I believe I’m dying,” he said quietly. “And I wanted to thank you.”  
Crawly blinked. Thank him? Why the Heaven would someone thank him? He was a Demon. Surely there was some law against it. “Thank me?”

“You’ve been my friend for almost fifty years, Crawly. You stayed with me through the best parts of my life, and you supported me when it all came down. And I know we’ve been out of touch lately—” He paused to cough. It went on for several minutes, and he winced with each one. “I want you to know how much I appreciate you,” he said when he caught his breath.

Oh no. Oh no. What was he supposed to say to that? Was it kindness? Was kindness to a Demon inherently bad? Or was all kindness good?

What was he thinking? A bit of kindness at the end couldn’t counteract the decades of evil Crawly had tempted him into. 

“Shut up,” said Crawly anyway. “I’m not worth it, Naram-Sin.”

“I think you are,” said Naram-Sin, looking amused. 

“I’m literally a Demon,” said Crawly. What could it hurt, saying it to a man on his deathbed.

Naram-Sin had the audacity to laugh. “My friend, you have not aged since we met and your eyes are like no one else’s. Did you truly believe I thought you were of this Earth?”

“Shut _up_.”

He laughed again, and it turned into a coughing fit. He devolved into wheezing toward the end. Crawly touched his arm, and he caught his breath. 

Wouldn’t do to let something like death interrupt someone professing how much they didn’t mind the inherent evil of a Demon, would it now? Best let him sink as low as possible before he snuffed it. 

“Thank you, Crawly,” said Naram-Sin, dark eyes twinkling. “Have a good life.”

“It won’t be good,” said Crawly. 

“Have an evil life, then,” said Naram-Sin. “Goodbye, Crawly.”

“Goodbye, Naram-Sin. May the gods Inanna and Anu bring you peace.”


	21. 3813 BC - Eastern Africa

_3813 BC. Eastern Africa, Azura’s Tribe._

Aziraphale tapped on the fabric at the entrance to Azura’s tent. “Hello! Is anyone home?”

“Yes, just a moment.”

Aziraphale stood back and waited, looking around at the camp. The tribe had grown in the almost fifty years since Adam and Eve chose to join with their little family. There were almost sixty of them now, and there had been some discussion of separating into two groups, but for now, it didn’t seem particularly serious. 

Azura opened the tent and stepped out, her young son Enos on her hip. “Aziraphale—you wanted to speak with me?”

“Actually, I was wondering if you’d like me to look after Enos for a bit? I know you’ve been ever so busy, and I have a bit of time on my hands.”

“Oh,” said Azura, looking him slowly up and down. 

He’d adopted a more neutral mode of dress recently, to reflect the fact that he wasn’t much for gender. And the people of the tribe had been absolutely lovely about it, despite his not being able to properly explain why that was the case. 

Still, Azura hesitated. 

He tried to exude as much Angelic kindness as possible. “I wouldn’t want you taking too much upon yourself, with Seth out tending to the sheep all day…”

She nodded. “Yes, sorry. I’m still not quite used to your robes.” She adjusted her grip on Enos, who was gnawing on a wooden ring. “His top teeth are coming in, so he’s a bit grumpy these days,” she said holding him out.

“Well, I think having bones breaking through one’s skin is a perfectly good reason to be a bit tetchy,” said Aziraphale, holding the boy. Oh dear, he was quite squirmy, wasn’t he? And slimy… perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all. 

What was he thinking? Angels loved all creatures, including young, slimy young humans who couldn’t speak yet. 

“Thank you,” said Azura. “He likes grass, if you wanted to try your luck there.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” said Aziraphale, adjusting his grip. “I’m sure we’ll get along splendidly. Don’t you think, Enos?”

Enos licked the wooden ring and put it back in his mouth, chewing with an air of general disdain. 

“We’ll get on, then.” Aziraphale nodded to Azura and turned. “Have a lovely day!”

Azura nodded and turned to go back into her tent. Probably to sleep, poor thing. Children seemed like so much work. Though perhaps it was better when one was especially fond of them, as parents seemed to be. And her sisters had been tied up of late—Luluwa making sure the date harvest went smoothly, Balbira with a sprained wrist which made it difficult for her to take care of a child. 

Aziraphale made his way to the river, which had grass growing about it, and sat down, sitting Enos down in front of him. “Well then. This is nice, isn’t it?”

Enos threw his wooden ring at Aziraphale and began crawling toward something behind him and to the left. 

Aziraphale caught the ring, miracling the saliva off and tucking it into a fold in his robe, then turned to catch Enos before he went too far. He seemed to have been heading for a flower. How lovely. He plucked it and handed it to the boy, settling him in his lap. 

Enos handled the flower with distinct wonder, making gurgling noises at it. He was rather adorable, if not much else. He had huge, dark eyes and beautiful, smooth brown skin. His tiny hands gripped the flower stem, turning it over and over, apparently so he could see it from every angle possible. 

It still bothered Aziraphale from time to time, there being other humans than the descendants of Adam and Eve. But he’d asked about it last time he was in Heaven, and Gabriel—who still hadn’t quite got the hang of corporeal bodies, it seemed—had assured him it was all part of the Great Plan, which was wonderfully soothing. 

And besides—if Azura and her tribe didn’t exist, then Enos wouldn’t be here at all, and that simply would not do. Though it was odd—the other members of the tribe did age a good deal faster than did Adam and Eve’s family. And Azura now, by extension. She looked only a few years older than she had when they’d met, as did Seth. Even her sisters looked younger than other women who’d been the same age when he met them. 

Adam and Eve as well, were aging very slowly indeed. White had only just begun to show in their hair, despite the fact that Aziraphale was sure they were nearly two hundred years old by now. 

“That seems to bode well for you, though, doesn’t it?” asked Aziraphale, addressing Enos, who was still examining the flower.

Enos nodded vaguely, then stuffed the flower unceremoniously in his mouth. 

Azuraphale gasped, and tried to pry the flower away. The baby’s hands were surprisingly strong, and though he could certainly take it, he didn’t want to hurt him. Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the flower vanished. 

Enos looked deeply confused, turning to look at Aziraphale. 

“Oh, don’t look like that. I am quite certain that type of flower is not edible, and it’s not as though you’ll remember it.” Aziraphale fished the wooden ring from his robes and presented it to Enos. “Try that. Much more… well, not edible. Chewable.”

Enos accepted the ring and began gnawing on it with gusto. 


	22. 3797 BC - Eastern Africa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to murder.

_3797 BC. Eastern Africa, Azura’s Tribe._

Aziraphale settled into his usual seat by the fire, listening to the young people talk. 

Enos had grown so very quickly, it was astonishing. He was a young man now, seventeen years old, courting another young man of the tribe who’d named himself Noam. 

“See, I just think that the sun and stars are _really_ excellent,” said Enos, gesturing with his cup of alcohol. “Have you ever thought about it?”

“Yeah, I get that,” said another young man. “The sun gives us heat and lets the plants grow. And the stars tell us where to go. They’re, like, magical.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Aziraphale. “Only the Almighty and those She chooses have that kind of power.”

Enos shrugged. “I don’t know about that. I mean, has anyone actually seen evidence of the Almighty? I know Gran and Gramps say they did, but like… Dad never did. Gran and Gramps saw it two hundred years ago.”

“I have,” said Aziraphale shortly, “when Cain killed your other Uncle.” Among other times, but of course he couldn’t very well say that. This kind of talk had been getting all too common of late, and he was not having it, thank you very much. 

Noam gave him a look. “Aziraphale… you know that doesn’t count, right?”

“Whyever not?”

Noam and Enos exchanged a glance, then Enos looked at him out the side of his eye. “You know you’re not exactly… normal, right?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you could possibly be referring to,” said the Angel. 

“Okay,” said Noam, holding up his hands. “I’m out.” He stood. “Enos?”

Enos stood too, taking Noam’s hand. “Look, Aziraphale—all I’m saying is, the sun and stars are really good, okay?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I’ll be speaking to your family about this, I’m afraid.”

“Go ahead,” said Enos, walking away. “I don’t care.”


	23. 3789 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

_3789 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia._

Crawly stumbled through the door to a deserted brick house and shut it behind her, sliding down to sit against it with her feet planted on the ground. 

Shouting people ran by outside, but thankfully didn’t bother checking the houses. She breathed a sigh of relief, relaxing, muscles trembling. That was odd. They hadn’t had much cause to tremble yet. 

She’d been in the middle of a temptation when bystanders overheard what she was saying. One thing led to another, and numerous people she’d tempted had recognized, then mobbed her. 

Ugh. 

She’d been off her groove for about a decade now—something wasn’t working. The bowls were totally standard these days, and any variation was noticed too quickly for anyone to get away with cutting corners. More than that, people were getting too ethical about business. It was driving Crawly up a wall, metaphorically and sometimes literally. Naram-Sin’s old house she’d settled into had gotten a lot of wall-pacing in recent years. 

And now, this. Couldn’t a Demon do her job? Apparently not. 

After tonight, it would probably be best if she didn’t appear in Uruk again. They’d recognize her face as ‘the man-shaped being chased through the streets by a mob of angry business people and merchants,’ which was not especially helpful to her purposes. 

She got to her feet and looked around the house she’d found herself in. It was bare, with a thin layer of dust covering the floor. She snapped her fingers to banish the grime, settling covers over the windows, and summoning furniture from her own house. With that settled, she sat down on a chair. 

She couldn’t stay in Uruk as long as people recognized her. It wouldn’t take too long for all this to blow over, though. A decade or two, if she was lucky. Although… if she could just keep them from recognizing her…

A polished copper mirror appeared before her with a snap of her fingers. She looked harried and dirty from her run through the streets, the ringlets she’d styled her beard into that morning all but gone.

Technically speaking, Crawly didn’t have a gender. There wasn’t really any point in a Demon having one. Still, Adam and Eve had assumed she was a man, so she’d gone along with it, and kept it for a while. It was a bit boring by now, though. It’d been, what, two hundred years? 

The beard styles this decade were really not her thing. And she’d been admiring the womens’ jewelry recently…

Crawly closed her eyes, concentrating. She shivered as things shifted. It wasn’t particularly unpleasant, but it was far from comfortable. She opened her eyes and leaned forward to examine herself in the mirror.

Excellent. Her beard was gone, and her hair was braided down her back. Her face was distinctly more feminine than it had been. Though the lack of beard was probably a big part of that, not that anyone else would know. And her eyes remained, as always. No way around that, really. 

That was fine though, if she stayed out of business circles. Not many people other than those she tempted got close enough to notice them. Not since she worked out how to have the white bit in her eyes like humans did, anyway. 

She settled back in her chair, enjoying the increased weight of her hair. She could do very well this way. 


	24. 3779 BC - Eastern Africa

_3779 BC. Eastern Africa, Azura’s Tribe_. 

Aziraphale stepped outside the tent he’d been staying in since his last one wore out. It was late evening, and many people of the tribe were drifting toward the fire at the center of their little camp. 

Azura found him, holding the hand of one of her and Seth’s many, many little ones. “Ah, Aziraphale!”

“Hello, my dear,” said Aziraphale. “Anything I might help with?”

“Enos and Noam aren’t back yet. If you could find them, that would be helpful.”

“Right. Yes.” Enos and Noam had become more than a little rebellious in recent years, apparently with a specific mutual vendetta against their grandparents and Aziraphale. “I’ll go do that then.”

Aziraphale began walking toward the edge of camp. He left the tents and went into the fields, hands clasped behind his back. Just outside the camp, he spotted Enos and Noam, apparently returning, and gestured his greeting before turning back and going to the area where the tribe was gathering to eat. 

When he arrived, Aziraphale greeted Adam, Eve, and their family, as well as the people of the tribe. Enos and Noam stayed on the opposite side of the fire from him, which suited him nicely. 

He pretended to eat as usual, surreptitiously giving his own portion of food to whoever looked most hungry. 

“Aziraphale,” said Eve at his elbow. “May I speak with you, please?”

He allowed himself to be guided away. She stopped them once the better part of the tribe was hidden from view. 

“What seems to be the problem?” Aziraphale asked.

“It’s Enos,” she said, expression stricken. “It’s happened.”

Aziraphale frowned, his insides doing something funny. “What’s happened?”

“He’s begun worshipping… things,” she said. “The sun, stars, and moon.”

“Oh dear.” Heaven would be so cross. Enos was under his protection, after all. “You tried to speak to him?”

“Of course I did,” she said. “I remember Eden, and the old days. Isn’t there anything you can do?”

“Anything I can do?” Aziraphale asked. “Why would I be able to do something?”

She pursed her lips. “Aziraphale. Really. You’re not exactly human, are you?”

“You’re not supposed to know that,” he said shortly. 

“I’ve known you for two hundred years,” said Eve. “It’s more than a little obvious.”

Aziraphale sighed. He’d begun sighing recently and found it incredibly satisfying now he’d got into the swing of it. “I suppose. Still, don’t tell anyone, please.”

“I haven’t. I don’t think Adam’s noticed, if that helps.”

“Oh good.” He paused. “But no, there’s nothing I can do. If he is closed to the Almighty, I have little influence over him.”

She crossed her arms. “Really.”

“Yes, really! Besides, direct influence is frowned on. I’m meant to encourage you all to do good, subtly. Not by crashing into your head and inducing you to.”

Eve raised her eyebrows. “I guess that’s a good thing, then.”

“Someone once told me I can’t do the wrong thing,” he said, standing a little straighter.

“Convenient for you,” she said dryly. “Go on back. I need to think.” 


	25. 3770 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to sexual harrassment.

_3770 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia._

Crawly wove through the crowd at a party, scanning the humans for a target. Presenting as a woman, she’d integrated into society fairly easily. She was pretending to be a widow from the new city of Ur. She’d lain low for a few years after her male persona was dishonoured, but was finally back in the swing of it. 

“Lady Crawly,” a voice said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

She turned to see a noblewoman she’d tempted maybe a year ago. Nis-something? Whatever. She nodded her head in greeting. “Oh, hey. I’m just passing through.” Nis-something had been more than a little dull, but easy enough to tempt. It might not hurt to do it one more time. 

“It’s good to see you again! It’s quite the coincidence—I was just telling my friends about your wonderful advice for dealing with that rude ambassador.”

Ambassador. Right. Crawly had encouraged her to spread a rumor about the ambassador’s dishonesty, which ended with him returning to his own city in dishonor. “It was the least I could do,” said Crawly, turning to face Nis-something. “I’m flattered it seemed worthy of a story.”

“Of course it was! Come—I’ll introduce you.”

Nis-something led her through the crowd to a gathering of five young women drinking palm wine. A platter of sweets sat on a low table between them. “My friends,” Nis-something said. “This is Lady Crawly, who I was speaking to you about.”

“May the gods Inanna and Anu keep you in good health,” said Crawly politely. 

The other women murmured the same. 

Nis-something led her to a seat and sat herself. “Now then,” she said, then introduced all of the women. 

“You know,” said one of them—Lamassum?— “it seems a bit much, excommunicating the ambassador over a rumor.”

Crawly turned to watch her.

“He was a rude man anyway,” said Nis-something. “Always asking impertinent questions.”

“Perhaps,” said Lamassum. “But was it really the right thing to do? Impertinence and actual bad behavior deserving of retaliation are two very different things. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it sounded as though he was only asking after your jeweler. It would be a different matter if he were impugning your honor or making unwanted advances, of course.”

“Seems to me like questions about the jeweler could mean the ambassador was up to no good in other ways. How far off are those sorts of questions from bad behavior, anyway? ” Crawly asked. 

“Very,” said Lamassum. “And even if they weren’t, excommunication is still overcompensation. If he had done something wrong, the right thing to do would be to punish him for it directly—not to punish him for something else he hadn’t even done.”

Crawly grinned. It had been a while since she’d had a proper challenge. “So basically, you’re saying that Nis—er, that she shouldn’t’ve done anything at all.”

“She could have told him that questions about her jeweler are impertinent,” said Lamassum. 

“Do you really think that would have kept him from doing it again, though, realistically speaking?” Crawly asked. “I mean, we all know how men can be these days,” she said, gesturing around at the assembled women with her cup of palm wine.

“Getting more impertinent every decade, men.”

“My mother is of the opinion that their recent behavior is a side effect of moving into cities,” said Lamassum, “and that it will subside sooner or later.”

“Eh, maybe.” Such optimism. “But—you,” she said, looking at Nis-something. “You were there, after all. Do you really think that this particular ambassador would have stopped asking after young peoples’ jewelers because one of them asked nicely?”

“I really don’t,” said Nis-something. 

“Y’see?” Crawly looked back at Lamassum. “Given that the goal is to stop him asking impertinent questions, and that the proper response, by your reckoning, is to ask him to stop, and given that wouldn’t work… isn’t it reasonable to go just a bit further to make sure he actually stops?”

“Maybe…” Lamassum looked delightfully conflicted. “It was still too much to spread a rumor that dishonored him entirely, though.”

Crawly shrugged. “I mean, fair enough.” Didn’t hurt to let them think they’d changed her mind, did it? Not in the long run. 

This would be fun. 


	26. 3760 BC - Eastern Africa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to murder.

_3760 BC. Eastern Africa, Azura’s Tribe._

“He’s my son,” Enos shouted. “I get to decide how to raise him.”

“I’m his grandmother,” said Eve. “You have some say, but in this particular instance, you’re wrong.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what exactly he was doing here. Kenan, Enos and Noam’s son, was three years old now. Enos and Noam’s argument with Eve, Adam, and Seth over whether to teach the boy to worship the heavenly spheres or God alone had been brewing for some time now. 

Though Aziraphale hadn’t expected to be brought into it when things finally went up. 

“You have no proof,” said Enos. “Besides, why would your God put the sun and stars and moon up there if They didn’t want them to be worshipped? They’re literally _above_ everything else, and give us everything we need to live. I think that’s deserving of worship!”

“But it’s not right,” said Eve. “That is the wrong thing to do. I don’t know how else to explain it to you.”

“That’s a pretty terrible way to convince me, you know that, right?” Enos crossed his arms. “Look, he’s my and Noam’s son, and you can’t tell us how to raise him. If you don’t like it, fine. You don’t have to see him.” He turned and began walking away. “Leave my son alone.”

“Enos,” said Eve, beginning to follow him. 

Aziraphale reached out and tapped her on the shoulder. “Wait, my dear. Perhaps we should let him go.”

Eve turned to face him. “But, Kenan…”

“I know,” said Aziraphale. Something felt heavy in his chest. Sadness, most likely. He’d started trying to relate the sensations to emotions. “I don’t think there’s much more to do for him.”

Eve scowled, suddenly appearing angry. Oh dear. 

“You’re an _Angel_ , Aziraphale,” she hissed at him. “Do something!”

Aziraphale swallowed. “I can’t. I’m not allowed.”

He’d asked Heaven after Enos and Noam began worshipping the celestial bodies, and they’d forbade him from interfering. Apparently, it was part of the Great Plan. 

“Why not?” She had tears in her eyes. “He’s my grandson, Aziraphale. Please.”

“I could Fall,” he said solemnly. “And then I wouldn’t be any good to you.”

“You’re not any good now if you can’t bring Enos back,” she said. “You can stay with us even if you Fall.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. You recall Crawly? He was Fallen. A Demon, and evil. He tempted Cain to kill Abel.” Goodness knows Aziraphale couldn’t bear to do such things now, but if he Fell… who knows what he could do. 

Eve took a step back. “Crawly did that?”

“He did, I’m afraid. Would you like to sit down, my dear?” Aziraphale conjured a chair. Eve knew what he was already. It hardly seemed to matter. 

“Why won’t they let you help Enos?” she asked, sinking into the chair. 

“I don’t know. It’s not our place to question the Almighty.”


	27. 3752 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

_3752 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia._

Crawly straightened the tassels on her skirt and checked her reflection one last time before leaving the house. She hurried down the street at a slightly faster pace than was strictly necessary. Still, Lamassum had requested her presence, and she was not going to be late. 

When she arrived, the attendant in the courtyard recognized her and ushered her in without asking any questions. She’d been wearing down Lamassum’s morals for nearly twenty years now, and was finally starting to see some progress. 

She greeted Lamassum’s husband politely and entered the back room, where Lamassum was reclining on a couch eating dates from a clay bowl. She put them down when Crawly entered. 

“Crawly! May the gods Inanna and Anu keep you in good health.”

“Yeah,” said Crawly, sitting in a chair across from Lamassum. “A messenger said you wanted to see me?”

“Yes,” said Lamassum. “I have a dilemma and I thought you were best suited to advising me.”

“I try,” said Crawly. “So. What’s up?”

Lamassum sighed. “Well, here’s the thing. Lady Alitum has been telling people that I’ve stopped speaking to her.”

“Which is true, right? Technically speaking?” 

“Technically speaking,” said Lamassum. “Of course, that’s not my fault—it’s just that she’s so utterly dull, I don’t want to be obligated to speak to her.”

“Which makes perfect sense,” said Crawly amiably. Lady Alitum was a bit dull, but probably not, strictly speaking, deserving of being estranged from Lamassum’s circles. Still, this was excellent progress from Lamassum. 

“I know. But the point is, not many people seem to be understanding my perspective.”

“Sounds like not many people have bothered trying to talk to Lady Alitum.”

“My thoughts exactly. So, considering that I can’t force my friends to talk to her, I need to stop Alitum from saying that I’m the one refusing her company.” Lamassum paused, eating a date. 

Crawly waited patiently. 

“The thing is,” Lamassum said slowly. “I have an idea, but I’m not sure it’s quite… the right thing to do. And I wanted to know what you thought.”

Crawly restrained her excitement from showing on her face. This was excellent! Lamassum was in a moral quandary and had come to her for help. “I’m always here to listen.”

“I knew you would!” Lamassum sat forward, leaning toward Crawly. “Here’s my idea: you’ll recall that Alitum is married to Samsi-Adad, of course. Well, my husband works with Samsi-Adad and has heard a few... unsavory things about the family.”

Crawly raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“Oh, you know. Unsavory business dealings: modifying measuring bowls, watering down wine, not paying debts. That sort of thing.”

This was going in a very pleasing direction indeed. “I see. And your idea is...”

“To tell Alitum that I know these things and that I intend to tell the king if she doesn’t retract her rumors against me.” Lamassum paused. “Only, I’m not sure if that’s really the right thing to do?”

Blackmail! Fantastic. Crawly affected a thoughtful expression. “These are all _true_ things you’d bring to light, I trust?” 

“Of course.”

“Then I don’t see the problem. If Alitum and Samsi-Adad didn’t want to be in this situation, they shouldn’t have been dishonest in business.”

“Oh, I was hoping you’d say that,” said Lamassum. “I’ll prepare to meet them as soon as possible.”

“Glad I could help,” said Crawly, smiling. 


	28. 3739 BC - Eastern Africa

_3739 BC. Eastern Africa, Azura and Enos’s Tribes._

The schism had been a long time in the making, but that didn’t mean Aziraphale had to like it. 

With over one hundred members, the tribe had been unstable for some time. Enos, Noam, and their followers were to go one direction while Seth’s family went the other. It was all rather unpleasant. 

Aziraphale’s own belongings were all packed up into a miraculously small bundle, which he held on to as he walked about the camp, saying goodbye to people. He’d made sure to pack while not many of the humans were awake, though Eve still cast him a knowing sort of glance when she saw the size of his bundle that indicated she knew what he’d done. 

Though it had been forty years since he became aware that she knew about his aethereal nature, it was still disconcerting. 

He went over to where Eve was disassembling her tent. “Which one are you leaving with, then?”

“Enos,” she said with a sigh. “On the condition that Adam and I stop criticising their parenting choices. Seth and Azura can get along without us, and on the off-chance that he and Noam change their minds, I want to be there.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “I had better accompany you, then.”

Eve gave him a strange look as she began bundling the tent into a more manageable bundle. “Why would you? Seth and Azura listen to you.”

“That’s the point, I’m afraid,” he said with a sigh. “It seems rather silly of me to offer guidance to those who already follow it.”

“Enos won’t like it if you talk to the other people in his tribe about it,” she said, straightening up. “Not one bit.”

“Then I simply won’t talk to them about it.”

“And how are you going to do that?” Eve asked dubiously. “You’re talkative.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I was hoping you and Adam might suffer my company a little longer. Though I wouldn’t wish to impose, so if you’d rather not, I can… find something else with which to occupy myself.”

“Of course you can talk to us,” said Eve, finishing her work. “I’m going to say goodbye to Seth now, if you’d like to come.”

“That sounds wonderful,” said Aziraphale. 


	29. 3730 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for on-screen murder and implied/referenced adultery.

_3730 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia._

Crawly swept into Lamassum’s house, passing her husband drinking wine in the first room before finding the lady in a back room. “Lady Lamassum—you wanted to see me?”

Crawly was doing very well indeed these days—she’d begun reentering the business circles again now that her activities in masculine form had been for the most part forgotten, with roaring success. Her last review with Hell had gone so well that Dagon let her come back up before the sun had set, which she considered a major victory.

She hadn’t heard from Lamassum much recently though, so when a messenger arrived to invite her over, she’d been mildly surprised. Hopefully, nothing had gone terribly wrong. 

Lamassum was waiting, watching Crawly enter the room. She smiled. “Lady Crawly. You’re looking well.”

Oh, right. The whole not-aging thing. “Er, yeah. I’ve been… praying?”

Probably not the right thing for a Demon to say. Though to be fair, Lamassum would probably assume she was praying to Inanna and Anu, which was more ambiguous. 

Lamassum raised an eyebrow. “Really? I didn’t think you were particularly devout.”

“My… mother. Has been on about it.”

“Mother?”

“I mean husband. Er. What was it you wanted?”

“I thought you were widowed?”

Bless it. “I was. I’ve been having dreams about my late husband telling me to pray.”

“Right.” Lamassum regarded Crawly skeptically for another moment, then gestured to the couches. “Come sit. Wine?”

“All right,” said Crawly, sitting across from Lamassum and accepting the cup of palm wine she passed her. “What’s up?”

Lamassum sat back. “I wanted to thank you,” she said. 

Again? What was all this with _thanking_ her? “Terrible choice, really.”

“I mean it, Crawly. You’ve made this life of mine possible. You took a principled young woman and made me something to be proud of.” 

Lamassum said the word ‘principled’ like it was a curse. 

“Oh?” Crawly swirled her wine and pretended to take a sip, moving a small portion from the cup into the road outside.

“You remember the first time we met?”

“’Course,” said Crawly. “Nis— something introduced us.”

“She did. And you’ll recall she was telling us how she got an ambassador exiled.”

“I remember,” said Crawly. Something seemed off here. 

“For a long time,” said Lamassum, “I must confess I wasn’t very fond of you. You were annoying and made me uncomfortable.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Crawly. Something was _definitely_ off. 

“I’m not sure what inspired you to take pity on me as I was then. It must have been terribly difficult getting through all my layers of denial. But I called you here to tell you that you’ve succeeded.”

“At what, exactly?” 

Lamassm clearly understood, at least to some extent, that Crawly had been tempting her away from good. And she seemed to think she’d done something that proved it. Crawly was meant to be happy. 

Crawly was happy. 

“At getting me to stop waiting for other people and take what I want,” said Lamassum, smiling coldly. “You see, Lord Sin-rimenni has something I want.”

Crawly forced herself to relax. This was a temptation. Whatever Lamassum had done, it would look good on her report to Hell. That was all she cared about. “And what’s that?”

“The ear of the king, of course,” said Lamassum. “And I’m going to get it.”

“How?” Something leaden and uncomfortable settled into Crawly’s stomach. 

“We’re to be married,” said Lamassum smugly.

“What?” 

“We’re to be married. I’ve been meeting with him for the past two years and it’s finally been agreed. I poisoned my husband this afternoon. Sin-rimenni’s wife will be dispatched shortly, and then I will have what I want.” Lamassum sat back. “So you see, Crawly—you have what you wanted, though I can’t say I know why you wanted it. And I’m thanking you.”

 _Shit_.

It was a very good thing that Crawly didn’t expect to have a gag reflex, or she wouldn’t have been able to hide her reaction. Instead, she took a deep breath disguised as a sip of wine, and pasted on a smile. “You’re welcome,” she said, voice steady. “I knew you could do it.”

“I didn’t,” said Lamassum, and chuckled. “More wine?”

“Actually,” said Crawly, setting her cup down with a far too shaky hand, “I, er—I’ve got some business to take care of. I just remembered. An order of—of—grain. Yeah. Order of grain. Gotta go.”

“But you just arrived,” said Lamassum disappointedly. “We’re celebrating.”

“Merchant’s leaving for Eridu tonight, I think. It’s just… very important. Anyway. Erm. Congratulationsss. Excellent job with the… murder.” Crawly stood, trying and failing to straighten out her clothes. 

There was a crash in an outer room and someone screamed. 

Crawly took a deep breath, let it out, and snapped her fingers. 

She reappeared in her own house, breathing hard. Lamassum had killed her husband. Oh, Satan. And she thought Crawly had tempted her into it.

Had she? 

Not directly, obviously. They hadn’t spoken for years before this. But the Lamassum she’d met all those years ago absolutely would not have even thought about it. 

Crawly sank into a chair. She was happy about this. Demon, remember? Ligur would be ecstatic, in her position. Dagon would be pleased when she told them. She might be able to get out of regular reviews for a bit after this one. 

But if she was happy, why were her hands trembling, and why did everything feel horrible? For the first time, Crawly wished Demons could drink. Alcohol would probably help right now, if she were human. 

Crawly took another deep breath. She was a Demon, for Satan’s sake. Death and destruction were supposed to be her jam. 

Maybe she wasn’t a very good Demon. 

Although, this whole thing was proof of the reverse. Crawly was an excellent Demon. She’d taken an impressionable, ethical, good young woman and turned her into an adulteress and murderer.

Maybe her Fall had been right after all. 


	30. 3717 BC - Eastern Africa

_3717 BC. Eastern Africa, Enos’s Tribe_. 

“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” said Mahalalel uncertainly. “My grandads say you two are out to corrupt me.”

Aziraphale grimaced. This is what they got for waiting so long to try and speak with the boy. “They might say that, but, you know—Eve here is your, er, great-great grandmother. And we mean you no harm, truly. You needn’t be afraid.” He put on his kindest, most Angelic smile.

Mahalalel shifted uncertainly, passing a smooth rock from hand to hand. “That’s exactly what someone who wanted to corrupt me would say.”

Beside Aziraphale, Eve sighed. “We won’t,” she said. “I promise. Do you want some dates, though?” She held out a bowl. “I’ve had my fill and Aziraphale here doesn’t like dates.”

The rock clattered as Mahalalel tossed it aside and sat down with them in the clearing they’d picked for the occasion.

This was excellent. Aziraphale and Eve had been waiting until the boy was old enough to think for himself to try to explain things to him. Adam ran interference these days, keeping Enos and Noam from banishing their little trio from the tribe.

“Why don’t you like dates?” asked Mahalalel, eating one. 

“Well,” said Aziraphale. He still wasn’t sure about this plan, but Eve seemed convinced. And it was only one boy, after all. “I’m an Angel, dear boy. I don’t eat food.”

“Woah,” said Mahalalel. “Can you do magic?”

“A bit. I’m not meant to very often. Also, they’re called miracles. And it’s a secret—you mustn’t tell anyone.” 

That last bit was important. Heaven had given him clearance a few decades ago, in light of the numbers of humans and the fact that Eve had found him out anyway, to tell a small number of humans about his being an Angel, and only when it would serve the Great Plan.

“I like secrets,” said Mahalalel, reaching for another date. “It’s fun knowing things other people don’t.”

“Do you know what an Angel is?” asked Eve.

“Nope,” said Mahalalel. “Is it someone with white hair? Because you’re the only person with white hair I’ve ever seen. Everyone else has black hair.” He pointed to his own dense black curls. “Like mine.”

“Not quite, dear boy,” said Aziraphale. “Though my hair is white because I am an Angel.*”

(* Aziraphale looked very human by Angelic standards. Something Angelic always shone through in their human bodies, and his white hair was less flashy than some. Most Angels these days had metallic golden skin, which was far less subtle when interacting with humans, who all had skin in shades of brown. And pink, though Aziraphale hadn’t seen any of those yet. Aziraphale _had_ met one human from another tribe who also had white hair, though she had very pale skin as well. In contrast, Aziraphale’s skin was dark brown at the moment, because brown was, as far as he was concerned up until that point, the only color human skin came in, and the color he expected it to be.)

“Cool,” said Mahalalel. “What’s an Angel?”

Eve explained.

“Cool. And what’s he doing here?”

“Well, when God created humans,” said Eve, “or at least when he created me and Adam, he put us in the Garden of Eden. And Aziraphale was guarding it.”

Mahalalel looked thoughtful. “If he was guarding, how come you got out?”

“A Demon,” said Aziraphale gravely. “An evil serpent named Crawly tempted Eve here to eat an apple she wasn’t meant to, and then Adam. So God sent them out of the Garden, and I came down to watch over all of you.”

“All of us?” asked Mahalalel. “Aren’t the stars doing that?”

Aziraphale grimaced. “Well... not quite.”

Eve nodded. “God created—”

A twig snapped nearby and all three of them looked up to see Noam looking rather put out. 

“What exactly are you telling my grandson?” he asked. 

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale. 

“Get out. Both of you,” said Noam. “You’re not to speak with the children. Is that clear?”

“Dreadfully,” said Aziraphale. 

Eve smacked his arm. “Yes. Sorry, Noam.”

Noam pursed his lips and beckoned Mahalalel. “Come on. The shepherds just came back. Let’s go meet your dad.”

Mahalalel spat out a date seed and jumped to his feet, taking his grandfather’s hand. “Can we give him a hug?”

“I don’t see why not,” said Noam. 


	31. 3707 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied/referenced torture and murder.

_3707 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia._

Crawly slammed the door to their house and flopped onto one of the couches. Humans _sucked_. Oddly enough, it’d taken them three hundred years to work that out. Though it was probably in large part their own influence. 

They rolled onto their side with a groan. They’d spent the afternoon trying to tempt a man into lying about an accident, only for him to lie, yes, but also kill the only person who could’ve contradicted him. 

Two murders in a bit more than twenty years. Hell would be ecstatic. 

“Pretty good Demon, eh?” Crawly addressed the wall. It wasn’t like there was anyone else to talk to. “Or bad. Pretty bad Demon. Whatever.”

They rolled onto their back again. “It’s not quite fair though, is it? I mean, I encourage one of them to do bad, they go and kill another one—that one’s dead. Where’s their chance to do good?”

Probably shouldn’t be thinking about morality like this, being a Demon and all. But they were asking questions, and that had gotten them kicked out of Heaven, so hey. Proper Demonic activity, asking questions. 

“I guess it’s not exactly clear whether I’m supposed to be tempting these humans, though, is it? They don’t believe in God. Well, not m— argh. Not the God that I’m against. Erm. Yeah, not that one.* And it’s not clear where they came from, either.” 

(* At this point, it became clear to Crawly that it would be far easier to just address God in the second person. However, as a Demon, they felt that this could be too easily construed as praying, which simply wouldn’t do, and they instead resolved to leave any target of their private, verbal, religion-related musings ambiguous for the sake of plausible deniability. This would have been effective, except for one minor aspect of their reality which they overlooked: God is omniscient, and knows which words are addressed to Her, and which are not.)

“Where did all these humans come from? They have to’ve come from somewhere. Right? Humans don’t just… pop out of nothingness. Well, not without divine intervention, anyway.”

Which was another thing they probably weren’t supposed to worry about. No one else in Hell was, after all. Satan knew what they were doing down there, given that they weren’t processing damned souls from up here. At one of their reviews, Dagon had said they weren’t receiving any. What were they doing down there, anyway?

Torturing each other, probably. Or just generally fuming. There was a lot of fuming going on when Crawly left. In both senses of the word. 

Maybe not all the humans were like this. Maybe it was just Uruk, with Crawly’s Demonic… stuff. Rubbing off on them. 

“’S not like I’m _trying_ for it to get like this,” said Crawly. “Probably ought to. Pace myself. Not use up all the depravity and, er. Badness, all in one go.”

Maybe if they tempted different humans for a bit, they could come back and the city would be better. Ripe for tempting again. 

“Do human settlements get oversaturated? Is that a thing? If you have a Demon hanging around too long, do they just get all… evil? Is that why I was sent down with an Angel?”

So that neither of them could get the upper hand?

Seemed a bit rude, that, though. One of them was supposed to get the upper hand eventually. That was the point of this whole thing, after all. 

Were the humans the Angel was with just fantastically good, with Crawly gone? 

“Can’t hurt if I travel around a bit, though, can it?” asked Crawly. “See the sights.” Somewhere far away from Uruk, ideally. Far away from Lamassum, and all the humans here. Far too many of them recognized Crawly by now. They’d had to go back to masculine presentation. But the humans were starting to be suspicious of anyone with snake eyes, which was inconvenient, to say the least. 

Travel it was, then. It’d take a few years for Hell to realize they weren’t in Uruk anymore, and when they were found, there might be literal Hell to pay, but hey—what was the point of being the only Demon topside if they couldn’t have some fun with it? 


	32. 3697 BC - Eastern Africa

_3697 BC. Eastern Africa, Enos’s Tribe_. 

Aziraphale was laying down in his tent, staring at the skins which made up the ceiling. One downside of being a sleepless being was the time he ended up spending just… laying down. Staring. 

It was a waste of time, and not particularly entertaining. It did, however, give him ample time to think. The most recent night, he’d thought, as he often did, about the first few decades after Eden, and about the current state of the tribe. 

Luckily, it was growing lighter outside, and he could hear humans moving about. He generally waited until he could hear at least five people awake, or else people began making jokes that he didn’t sleep. Which he didn’t, but it was the appearance that mattered.

Footsteps sounded outside and there was a knock on the outside of his tent. Aziraphale sat up and put on his very best groggy voice. “Hello?”

“It’s me, Aziraphale,” said Eve. “Enos is holding a special meeting. Come on.”

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale, dropping the voice. Enos holding a meeting might bode rather well as far as their little trio was concerned. “I’ll be out directly.”

He sat up, joints rather annoyed with him for moving so suddenly, and opened the tent, then stepped out. 

Eve stood outside, arms crossed, shivering. Oh yes—it was rather cold out, wasn’t it? 

He attempted a shiver.

Eve grimaced. “Don’t do that.”

“Sorry,” said Aziraphale.

“Anyway, come on— we need to be there even if he won’t let us talk. Also, it would be very nice if I could be warmer right now.”

Aziraphale frowned. “You know I can’t do that,” he said. 

“I didn’t ask for anything,” said Eve. “You’re the one who brought it up.”

“It was implied,” said Aziraphale primly, turning toward the center of camp where the fire was and meetings were held. 

Eve fell into step beside him.

“Is Adam coming?” asked Aziraphale. He hadn’t seen Adam since they came across another tribe about a week earlier. 

“No,” said Eve. “He’s been feeling a bit ill, recently.”

That was not good. “I’m sure he’ll feel better soon.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers. 

Eve just raised her eyebrows. 

“Anyway,” said Aziraphale. “Any ideas what this meeting will be about?”

“No.” Eve untied a thin strip of material from her wrist and used it to tie her black and grey curls back. “Though I have heard some people talking about leaving this area.”

“Leaving?”

Eve shook her head, shushing him. 

They arrived in the middle of camp, where the adults of the tribe were gathering, a few still wrapped in blankets. The sky was still a dark blue, and peoples’ breath came out in little visible puffs. 

Aziraphale made sure to breathe consistently. 

Just as the sun began to show over the trees, Enos and Noam arrived. 

“Hey, everyone!” Enos said. “It’s great to see everyone—sorry to call you out on such short notice, but since we met with that tribe last week, Noam had an excellent idea. Noam?”

Noam nodded. “Yeah—I think some of you will remember their stories of larger groups of humans in the north?”

A few of the humans murmured around them. Apparently, they _had_ heard of larger gatherings. How odd. Aziraphale was still getting used to multiple tribes. 

“Sounds like we’ve all heard it, but in case you missed it, word is that there are big groups of thousands of humans called ‘cities.’ So we were thinking about it, and it sounded cool to check out. What does everyone think?”

“How far north?” asked one of them. 

“Not sure. A long way,” said Enos. “It wouldn’t really change anything—we’d just be walking north.”

“Sounds good to me,” said one of them. 

Eve leaned toward Aziraphale and said in a low voice, “didn’t Cain go north?” 

“No,” said Aziraphale. “Cain went east, I believe.” Crawly had gone north, though, hadn’t he? Oh dear. 

Though it was a big world, it seemed. With a bit of luck, their paths would not cross again. 


	33. 3691 BC - Wrangel Island

_3691 BC. Wrangel Island, Arctic Ocean_. 

Crawly snapped their fingers, imagining themself appearing somewhere new, and opened their eyes to find themself very, very cold. 

They’d been hopping around the world at random for some time now, spending a year or two in each location, tempting the humans briefly then swanning off again. 

Could they swan off? Or were they required to do all things snakely?

At any rate, whatever this place was, it was _cold_. Crawly opened their eyes to find their feet in snow. They’d learned what snow was about fifteen years ago when, in a rather shocking turn of events, they’d found themself buried in it and only got out without discorporating by virtue of a kind human who’d happened to be nearby. 

Crawly snapped their fingers, replacing the light linen clothing they’d been wearing with thick furs. Much better. 

They raised a hand to their eyes and surveyed their new location. There was no sign of humans nearby, which was both pleasant and bad for them. On one hand, it would be nice not to hide their Demonic nature for once. On the other, it meant they probably couldn’t stick around for very long before Hell got antsy. 

Crawly stood on top of a hill, with more hills around. The ground seemed to be dirt and some plants, with a relatively thin layer of snow. In the distance, they could see a collection of large brown shapes, which looked rather like… elephants?

That was absurd. There couldn’t be elephants here. It was snowy, for Satan’s sake! All the elephants Crawly had ever encountered stayed in warm areas.

Those definitely looked like elephants, though. 

Crawly walked down the hill. Confused elephants, maybe. Or special, cold-weather elephants. Some of the humans they’d met talked about big fluffy elephants called mammoths, but they’d assumed those never existed, considering no one had actually seen any in generations, and the world hadn’t existed for longer than that. 

Then again, humans weren’t especially good about sharing information around. A lot of them were convinced there was only one major land mass! Which was not true. 

So it was entirely possible these were mammoths. Funny sort of word, ‘mammoth.’ Made Crawly think of fuzzy grey butterflies, but with a ma- sound on the front. 

Not the ma- sound on the front of the moths. It would be difficult to stick a particular sort of vibrating air particles to a bug, even for a Demon. No, the ma- sound went on the front of the sound, ‘moth.’ Which Crawly associated with the butterfly things. 

As they got closer, the group of elephant-or-possibly-mammoths became more clear. They did look a bit like elephants, but seemed to be covered in thick brown fur. Which was probably their own, considering Crawly had never met an elephant smart enough to make clothes. 

Well, given that the clothes bit was technically speaking Crawly’s fault, it was probably more fitting to say that Crawly had never tempted elephants to eat fruit which would make them feel the need to wear clothes. They’d been around three hundred years, but felt that such an event would be memorable enough they’d remember doing it if they’d done it. So they hadn’t.

And that meant that these animals were not elephants, but mammoths. Which was the logical conclusion all along, but Crawly had been by themself quite a bit in the last twenty years, and found that they had to think a lot to take up the extra space, lest they start talking aloud and do something embarrassing that might be construed by certain people as speaking to the Almighty. Of course Crawly never did that. They were a Demon, who just happened to enjoy talking aloud at length about faith and suchlike. 

At any rate, these animals were mammoths, which as far as Crawly could tell, didn’t really exist anywhere else. Strange thing for God to have done, put a type of animal on just one island and nowhere else. Especially considering Her track record with humans. 

They’d had a review with Hell about five years ago, which meant they weren’t due for another for a few more years. And the last temptation had gone badly… 

A mammoth turned to Crawly, extending its trunk and batting at their head.

Crawly grinned. “Hey. New around here. Mind if I stick around for a bit?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favourite scenes in the 4th millennium BC. I figure, if the show has unicorns, I can have mammoths. Mammoths make me happy.


	34. 3680 BC - Upper Egypt

_3680 BC. Upper Egypt, Enos’s Tribe._

“We’re approaching a village!” came a familiar shout. Jared, Mahalalel’s seven-year-old son, had taken to announcing new developments whenever they came upon one in their travels. 

The tribe had been drifting slowly north for seventeen years, travelling for a week or two and then staying put for several months to adjust. 

Aziraphale wasn’t particularly fond of the new system. Mere months was simply not enough time to appreciate each location. It was one thing when they travelled through the same lands over and over again, but moving consistently north, it was much too fast. If only he could stop in each spot for a few years. Or a decade! Though he knew not all the humans were accustomed to having so much time. 

Jared raced from person to person, making sure everyone had heard that they were approaching a village. He ignored Aziraphale, Adam, and Eve in their little cluster at the back of the tribe. His parents had kept him from speaking with them his whole life. 

“Another village,” remarked Eve wryly. 

“Indeed,” said Aziraphale. “Pleased?”

“Yes,” said Eve. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Aziraphale frowned. It was true. Her hair was half grey now, as was Adam’s, and her brown skin sported deep lines. It would be good when they reached the city and the two of them would be able to rest more. Hopefully, the humans in the city wouldn’t mind their slow aging terribly. 

As he encountered more humans, Aziraphale grew increasingly uneasy with how quickly they seemed to die. Apparently, humans didn’t generally live to be ninety! And some died before fifty. It was unthinkable. 

“Will we be stopping at the village?” Eve asked Adam. 

He shrugged. “I could ask, but I don’t think they’d answer me.”

Though Adam had begun their little exile as something of an ambassador between the tribe leaders and Aziraphale and Eve’s outcast pair, a little over five years ago he’d listened too closely to one of Enos’s lectures and, in a fit of pique, explained everything from Eden to Cain. Enos had not taken kindly to it, so Adam had joined them as outcast relics of the schism. 

Adam didn’t ask. Still, before long they crested the hill they were on and were able to see the village. It was situated on the bank of the river they’d been travelling along for some time—the Nile?—and appeared to consist of a few dozen houses built from woven reeds and branches. On the river itself, Aziraphale could see a few boats built of reeds. 

Up ahead, someone in unfamiliar dress was conversing with Noam. Before long, they seemed to reach an agreement and Noam waved them down the hill. 

In the village, they were greeted by a dozen or so friendly humans. 

One came up to Aziraphale’s group, holding a red and black pot full of what appeared to be beads. “Hello. Why are you apart from your tribe?”

Eve raised her eyebrows. “That’s very forward of you.”

“I don’t see any point in dancing around my meaning,” they said. “Also, if you are ill, we will have to ask you to leave.”

“We’re not ill,” said Aziraphale, imbuing his tone with as much trustworthiness as possible. “We have different beliefs from the rest of our people.”

The villager hummed. “That’s not a problem if you’re polite about it. Beads?”


	35. 3666 BC - Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to murder.

_3666 BC. Hell._

Crawly dropped out of the ceiling and shifted back to their human form, brushing dirt from their dark curls. Someone _really_ needed to come up with a better entrance than ‘dig yourself into the ground and loose hope.’ 

A bored-looking Demon ignored them from the rude reception desk. Crawly walked up and leaned on the desk. “Hi. Crawly. Reporting from Earth.”

The Demon spat to the side and didn’t look at them. Their eyes glowed with hellfire, illuminating the grimy fingernails they seemed to be filing into points. “Crawly. Didn’t see you on the list.”

“You didn’t check the list,” Crawly pointed out.

“Wasn’t on it this morning,” the Demon said.

“Check it again.”

“No,” said the Demon, boredly. 

“I’ll just go in then, shall I?” said Crawly, walking toward the door. 

“No.”

“Then check the lissst,” hissed Crawly. 

The Demon sighed. “Fine.” They closed their eyes, lips moving as they silently recited the list. They opened them again, scowling. “Are you sure there’s not an ‘O’ sound in your name? I feel like the name they mentioned had an ‘O’ sound.”

“It’sss my name, I know what it is,” said Crawly. “And it’s Crawly.”

“Too bad.”

“What?” asked Crawly dangerously. 

“Worry about it,” said the Demon carelessly, going back to filing their nails. “You can go ahead. Dagon’s expecting you.”

Crawly walked through the door and straight into Dagon’s office. The other Demons hadn’t quite got the hang yet of how space was meant to work, which meant that the architecture of Hell was generally inconsistent as a rule. Oddly convenient, though. Probably one of the only things Hell had going for it. 

“Crawly,” said Dagon irritably. “You’re late.”

“Got sidetracked,” said Crawly, dropping into the chair in front of their desk, leaving one leg over the side. They’d recently discovered that it was an exceedingly comfortable way of sitting, depending on the chair. “I was just finishing up a temptation before I came down. Time-sensitive. You know how it is.”

“You know I don’t, Crawly. You are the only Demon stationed on Earth at this time.”

“Yeah, well. This one was a whopper. Didn’t want to leave it unfinished.”

Dagon eyed them suspiciously. “Tell me about this ‘whopper.’”

“’Course. Yeah. Erm. I was in China—have I told you about China yet?”

“No,” said Dagon.

“Right. Well, it’s east of Mesopotamia. The location doesn’t actually matter. The point is, I spent a year convincing a farmer to destroy his neighbor’s crops.”

“Is he damned?”

“Eh, probably. He destroyed the crops, and when the neighbors are forced to move out, he’ll take ’em over. Pretty evil if you ask me,” said Crawly, confidently in spite of their lack of confidence. They’d lost track of time and spent a solid fifteen years hanging out with mammoths, only going back to humans when they received the five-year notice for a report in the form of a very, very cold Ligur. That had been more than a little unpleasant. 

“What else have you done?” asked Dagon. 

“Hang on. Gotta think. Erm. Six thievery. Two adultery. A dozen coveting somebody else’s stuff. One murder. A few unnecessary cruelty to animals…”

“Only one murder?” asked Dagon suspiciously. “You’re underperforming in murder, Crawly.”

“It’s hard to convince humans to kill other humans,” said Crawly, in spite of the fact that they’d found it much too easy. 

“I thought humans hated each other,” said Dagon dubiously.

“Depends on the humans. Thing is, humans are very… er. The point is, they care more about long-term cruelty than short-term annihilation. Often. Er. So if you’re a human who’s mad at another human, sometimes, they like making the other human’s life miserable more than killing them. Killing doesn’t last very long.”

“Killing lasts forever,” says Dagon seriously. “That’s half the point of killing.”

“No, no, see—humans live in the moment. More or less. Sort of.” Crawly paused. “Anyway. The _pain_ of killing doesn’t last very long. Even if the killing itself does, the humans don’t always care about that. It’s the pain that counts, and they can make each other feel pain better when they’re alive. Plus, miserable humans are more likely to sin.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Definitely.”

“Hmm. I’ll memorise that,” said Dagon. “What else have you done?”


	36. 3659 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

_3659 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_. 

Aziraphale set a load of mud bricks down in the center of the tribe’s new location. They’d arrived in Ur several weeks ago, and most of the tribe was currently engaged in building houses for themselves. Though old, Aziraphale’s divine strength made moving large quantities of bricks relatively easy.

He nodded politely to Mahalalel’s wife Dinah, who came to collect bricks for building the house, then went back to the canal where a raft of bricks waited.

Eve sat on the edge of the canal near the raft, looking amused. “On brick duty, Aziraphale?”

“I’m afraid so,” he said, gathering another load and turning to face her. “Can I help you?”

“You’re aware that carrying bricks is a task normally left to young, strong types, right?”

“I am rather physically strong, if you don’t mind my saying so,” said Aziraphale, adding another brick or two more than was strictly necessary to prove his point.

“I can see that. That’s not what I’m worried about,” said Eve. “You have white hair, Aziraphale, and you’re at least three hundred years old. Frankly, at first glance, you’re an old person, and carrying bricks is a good way to show people you’re not a person at all.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, setting a few of the bricks down. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Yeah.” Eve looked sympathetic. “Have you gotten a chance to look around the city yet?”

“Not really,” said Aziraphale. “I’ve been busy.”

“Let’s go,” said Eve. “You’ve been working a lot. And you can probably find someone to bless.”

Aziraphale hadn’t done any blessings in some weeks. It was probably time he did a few again. He put the bricks back down, and called to a young man a few houses away. “Hello! Terribly sorry to bother you, but would you mind finishing these up? I’ve some business to attend to.”

Which was true. Blessings were Aziraphale’s business, in a manner of speaking. 

The young man looked vaguely confused, but nodded.

Aziraphale turned to Eve and offered a hand. “Did you have a particular destination in mind, my dear?”

Eve groaned as he helped her up. “Aging,” she said irritably. “And not a particular one so much as a direction. Have you been to the coast yet?”

“Not as such, no,” he said. “I hear there’s rather a lot of water, though.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Eve said. “Come on.”

They walked through the buildings of Ur, Eve greeting an acquaintance along the way. It was still a mite distressing that the people here worshipped different gods to the one Aziraphale knew, but he’d decided it was more the good they did or didn’t do that mattered. Or if not, that it was all part of the Great Divine Plan, and that he needn’t worry.

Ur was very large, with a lot of humans, and Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure what he thought of it yet. There were a number of substances and things here that Aziraphale was certain didn’t originate in the area. He wasn’t sure if he was meant to be condemning the luxury or celebrating their ingenuity and cooperation. 

Celebrating cooperation was more positive, so it seemed the most likely possibility.

Eve led them around a corner to a promenade overlooking— “oh, my word.”

Aziraphale had spent the only three hundred years of his life in various deserts, and the ocean was massive. The Buranuna flowed into it, water mixing in swirls. The waves were dark grey-blue, and went on past the horizon. 

Eve jabbed a finger into his side. “Breathe, Aziraphale,” she whispered.

He nodded, exhaling. “It’s so beautiful,” he said, and murmured a prayer under his breath. 


	37. 3647 BC - Tehuacán Valley, Mexico

_3647 BC. Tehuacán Valley, Mexico_. 

Crawly sat on a fallen tree trunk. “How’s the crop?”

Kele, a farmer and Crawly’s newest temptee, shrugged. “The corn is becoming more useful slowly. The squashes look good, though.”

“Nice,” said Crawly. “How’s the family?”

“Well,” said Kele, “better now that the illness has cleared up.”

Crawly made a noncomittal grunting noise. “Even the kid?”

“Especially her,” said Kele, settling onto the trunk beside them. “What are you doing here again, Crawly?”

“Just passing through,” they said. 

They’d met Kele five years ago when they appeared right in front of him by accident. And, thanks to whatever power’d been keeping them from influencing humans since leaving Adam and Eve, they hadn’t been able to make him overlook the incident. So, naturally, they’d had an idea and popped down to Hell immediately to get a new tactic approved: tempting humans who knew they weren’t quite human themself. ‘Only when necessary or desirable,’ Dagon had said. 

“Where did you go?”

“Here and there,” said Crawly. 

Kele sighed. “Somewhere you can disappear to, I assume?”

“Maybe,” said Crawly. “Place called Hell.”

“Mm. Nice place?”

“Whatever the opposite of a nice place is,” said Crawly sullenly. “It’s cold and full of people.”

“Why did you leave, then?”

“You have an awful lot of questions.”

“I think that’s a good thing,” said Kele. 

“Not where I’m from,” said Crawly. 

“And where’s that?”

“Nowhere important.” They turned to face him. “You know, technically speaking, I’m supposed to be tempting you right about now.” Probably more candid than Dagon meant, but who was going to know, anyway? Kele seemed an easygoing bloke—he barely even blinked at that.

“Tempting me?” he asked. “To do what, exactly?”

“Not sure,” said Crawly. “And I don’t feel like worrying about it yet. Why’re you putting up with me, anyway?” 

If anyone asked, it could be explained away as reconnaissance. Without infernal powers of persuasion, Crawly found they had to do a lot of reconnaissance. Much more difficult than slithering up to Eve and suggesting a snack with just a bit of supernatural trustworthiness behind the words. 

Though still very effective, considering Uruk. 

“You’re funny,” said Kele. “And I’ve finished my work for the day.”

Crawly frowned. “So, you see somebody with snake eyes who can disappear at will and your reaction is, ‘oh, I’ll just go have a nice little chat?’ Is this just a normal afternoon?”

“I’ve seen stranger,” said Kele with a laugh. “Half the interest is how you talk like you’re unusual.”

“Right,” said Crawly. In their travels, they’d come across multiple humans who said they could perceive things Crawly couldn’t, and heard different stories about how the world came to be. Sometimes, Crawly thought they could sense something just past their scope of understanding, but it always vanished. 

“Crawly?”

Crawly blinked. “Yeah. Sorry. Got carried away a bit.”

“I can see that,” said Kele. “How long are you staying?”

“A few weeks. Months, maybe. Depends if I like it and how much success I have.”

“You’ll help out?”

“What, on the farm?” asked Crawly.

“Of course,” said Kele. 

“Probably. I don’t see why not.”

“Good. The kids will be excited to see you again,” said Kele. “They enjoyed the show you put on last time.”

Corrupting children by showing them Hellish powers was a thing they could claim credit for, right? And the adults supporting it. “Yeah, I can do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like I forgot to post this chapter. Sorry, folks!


	38. 3638 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for referenced murder.

_3638 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia._

Aziraphale settled into a chair, holding a cup of palm wine which he fully intended to miracle away at the first opportunity. He was here to encourage a young merchant, who was ostensibly pure of intent but came from a family of ill repute. 

A young human in masculine clothing came to sit on a couch opposite him. “You look distracted,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. I’m Nabium-malik.”

“Ah. Aziraphale.” He extended a hand in customary greeting. 

Nabium-malik took it. “May the god Nanna keep you in good health.”

Aziraphale retracted his hand quickly. “Tell me, have you heard of Ibni-Adad?”

Nabium-malik laughed. “Everyone has, considering his family. Are you new here?”

“New to the area,” said Aziraphale. Which was more or less true. He’d been there for twenty years, which was increasingly little as the centuries passed. And he’d spent most of that time trying to influence the locals around Adam and Eve’s house. “What was that about his family?”

Context, he’d discovered, was important when trying to guide people without divine influence over them. 

“It’s an old story,” said Nabium-malik. “His great-grandmother and great-grandfather murdered their spouses to get married and to have the ear of the king.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

“Yeah, apparently it was quite the scandal, ninety years ago.” Nabium-malik looked pleased with himself. “In fact, I’ve heard there was an evil influence at play.”

“Really?” Stories of other supernatural beings were a strange phenomenon, as far as Aziraphale was concerned. He’d been told it was part of the Divine Plan. Something to do with leading humans astray, though it didn’t seem to have any tangible pull toward evil, as far as he could tell. 

“I’ve heard stories of a fashionable woman who gave Ibni-Adad’s great-grandmother the idea. A woman with the eyes of a snake and a tongue to match.” Nabium-malik sat back, evidently pleased with his dramatic storytelling. “It’s probably just people in Uruk making things up, if you ask me.”

“Oh, indeed?” Aziraphale swallowed. A widow with the eyes and tongue of a snake sounded rather like Crawly. “This woman—would you happen to recall her name?” It wouldn’t do for the Demon to be counteracting Aziraphale’s influence in Ur.

Hopefully, she knew what was good for her and stayed in Uruk.

“The grandmother? Lamma, I think. Something like that.”

“No, the one with the, erm, snake eyes,” said Aziraphale anxiously. “Do you know what she was called?”

Nabium-malik smirked. “You are remembering this was ninety years ago, my friend? You’d have better luck finding a wife among the living.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth in outrage, then took a deep breath to restore proper Angelic calm. This boy did not know that, if this widow was indeed Crawly, she could be in the room next door for all they knew. And encouraging murder again too!

He exhaled. “That was not what I had in mind, my dear boy. I merely wondered if you remembered anything else about her.”

“I don’t think so. Tall, dark hair, snake eyes, snake tongue. The story I heard has been passed down through many people. Ibni-Adad would know better, it being his family history.” Nabium-malik frowned. “Are you going to drink that?”

Aziraphale shook his head and passed the wine over. 


	39. 3630 BC - Eastern Coast of Japan

_3630 BC. Eastern Coast of Japan._

Crawly set down a jar of acorns by the fire where Are was cooking. “’S that enough for the day?” they asked. 

Are looked into the jar, and back at them. “Yes,” she said. “This is a lot, actually.”

“Right, sorry.” Crawly sat.

“It’s good,” she said. “I was just surprised you found so many so quickly.”

“Oh, yeah.” Problems with using magic to do chores—humans got all weird if you did them too well. 

“Have you seen Hikoyai anywhere?” she asked. 

“Not lately, no,” said Crawly, scanning the trees around them. “Is he missing?”

Hikoyai was Are’s six-year-old son, who had an unfortunate tendency to run off. “I haven’t seen him since before you left,” she said, looking up from the pot of squash. “Would you go look for him?”

“Yeah, sure.” Crawly got to their feet again. “Any idea which direction he went?”

“Try south. Or by the ocean,” she said.

“Right. Bye, then.” 

Crawly walked through the trees, heading for the ocean. They’d been living with Are’s family for two years now. It wasn’t too bad—a bit damp at times, but not so unpleasant as to prompt them to leave. Not to mention, they were still in the process of sowing general discontent, which was finally starting to pay off. 

They would probably need to move soon, though. Are’s husband had become increasingly bad-tempered, and would soon likely be bad enough Crawly would have something for a proper report. 

Where they’d go next, they weren’t sure. They’d been in warmer areas for a while, though, and it was probably time for a change. For the first time since leaving, they’d begun considering returning to Uruk. Familiarity sounded nice, and maybe by now Adam and Eve’s descendants would have branched out enough they could get a hand into it again. Though, it had only been a century, and people might still remember them, which made their job a lot more difficult than it really needed to be. 

Perhaps it was time to head north again.*

(* It should be noted that Crawly’s laissez-faire attitude toward spontaneous global travel owed a lot to the fact that they still understood everyone. Languages hadn’t been differentiated just yet, and Crawly wasn’t even aware that different languages were a possibility.)

They emerged from the trees onto sand. It was overcast today, clouds the light shade of grey belonging to a formerly white cloud which is annoyed and trying to hold a grudge but not terribly successful. A gust of wind had the audacity to blow Crawly’s increasingly straight hair into their face, so they tied it back. 

Then they set off down the beach. “Hikoyai!” Crawly called. “Your mother’s worried about you!”

No response. Hikoyai was rather stubborn though, and there was no guarantee, if he had heard them, that he would respond. 

After about ten minutes, Crawly remembered that they didn’t actually have to do this the human way. 

“Hikoyai!” Crawly yelled, voice magically amplified such that the boy would hear it but not anyone else. “Get to the… er… big rock shaped like an ear on the beach! Right now!”

Then they sat on the rock, and waited. 


	40. 3617 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for description of illness.

_3617 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_. 

Aziraphale knocked at the door of Kenan’s house and stepped back, clasping his hands. A messenger had arrived that morning requesting his presence, though he hadn’t the faintest idea why. Since arriving in Ur, he’d generally stopped speaking with the rest of the tribe.

He twisted a tassel on his skirt. Eve had at long last forced him to adopt the same clothing as the people of Ur, though he hadn’t been happy about it. His robes were perfectly functional and suitable to his day-to-day life, thank you very much. 

The door to Kenan’s house opened, and Kenan looked him up and down. “You actually changed,” he said with a tone of surprise. 

“Stunning observation,” said Aziraphale mildly. “May I come in?”

“Sure,” said Kenan, standing to the side. “Something to drink?”

“No, thank you.” He followed Kenan to a set of couches where they sat opposite one another. “Might I ask what prompted your invitation this morning?”

Kenan poured himself a cup of water and sat back. “Yeah. I, uh… I have a favour to ask of you.”

“Do you really?” asked Aziraphale. “Why?”

“I don’t believe your lot’s stories,” said Kenan, running a finger around the rim of his cup and studiously not looking at Aziraphale. “But… it’s my wife. Mualeleth. She’s taken ill, and I’m worried she won’t survive.”

Oh, dear. Mualeleth had always seemed a decent woman, regardless of her following Enos. “What makes you think I can help?”

“I know you can,” said Kenan. “I’ve seen you do it. I don’t know how, and frankly I don’t believe your reasoning for your abilities, but I’m praying to the sun and stars and I thought I should ask you too. For my wife.”

“I see,” said Aziraphale. “I’ll see what I can do. Where is she?”

Kenan stood and set his cup on a low table. “Follow me.” 

He led Aziraphale into the back of the house, to a room where a woman rested on a bed. The room smelled like sick human. 

Aziraphale walked to the bed, where Mualeleth slept. Her skin, a sickly washed-out brown, glistened with sweat and her breath came in short pants. He rested a hand on her hot forehead and closed his eyes, summoning strength from Heaven with his other hand and using it to heal her body.

Her breaths evened out, and by the time he blinked his eyes open and removed his hand, some of her color seemed restored. He turned to face Kenan. “There we are. She will require a few days to recover, but I’m sure she’ll be right as rain presently.”

“Thank you, Aziraphale. I can’t… thank you.”

Aziraphale smiled. “It’s my job,” he said proudly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems as though I managed to not post 3647 BC on schedule, but it's up now.


	41. 3608 BC - Balbridie, Scotland

_3608 BC. Balbridie, Scotland._

Crawly looked Ealusaid and pursed their lips. “I understand why you’re worried, but, I mean… winter’s on its way. Are you sure you’re going to be okay without it?”

Ealusaid dropped her head into her hands. “I don’t know! I just… I don’t know that it’s the _right_ thing to do.”

“What makes you think Seonaid deserves it?” they asked gently. 

“It’s her sheep,” said Ealusaid slowly.

“Seonaid has three sheep. You only have one. It seems to me like you’d be… evening things out, so to speak.” Crawly sighed, and stood with a shrug. “It’s up to you. I just don’t want to see you hurting when winter comes.” They left Ealusaid outside and went into the long house. 

Inside, they wove around other humans to sit before the fire where Seonaid was spinning wool. She was visiting from a settlement a few days’ journey away—too far to walk once winter came. 

Seonaid smiled at them. “Hello, Crawly. How is Ealusaid?”

“Well enough,” said Crawly. “How’s the spinning?”

“It’s going well, I think.” She shifted the large bundle of roving in front of her. “I could use a hand though.”

“I’ve got hands.”

“So you have,” said Seonaid. She pulled off a section of the roving and passed it over. “How long have you been here, Crawly?”

“Er… eight years? Yeah, about eight years.” They’d spent seven in total with Are’s family, then nine hanging out in Punt, before coming up north. 

“Where did you come from?”

“All over the place, really,” said Crawly. They didn’t exactly fit in anywhere these days. Hadn’t stayed put long enough to learn how, or for their body to catch up and blend in. It wasn’t so bad, really. They didn’t stay long enough to really mess up a particular group of people, for one thing. “I’ve been travelling for a long time.”

“Have you thought of settling down?” Seonaid asked. “I heard of a man looking to marry in my village just last week.” She gave them an appraising look, then looked back down at her spinning. “And a woman the week before.”

Crawly chuckled. Humans in some parts of the world had narrow views of gender, which were fun to mess with. Proper Demonic work, sowing unrest and questioning of one’s very identity. Or that’s what he told Dagon, anyway. “I’m not looking to get married any time soon,” they said. “Not ever, probably. Not really the marrying type.”

Seonaid raised an eyebrow. “Really? You definitely seem like it.”

“Nah. It’s just not for me. Or, I’m not for it, really. If someone knew what I really was… about, they wouldn’t want to marry me.” They paused. “So, not for me.”

“Suit yourself,” she said. “Kids, though?”

“Definitely not,” said Crawly quickly. 

“Why not?”

“Messy, loud things, kids. They’d annoy the Heaven out of me.”

Seonaid laughed. “You’re a strange one, you know that?”

Behind her, Ealusaid crept past the door of the long house, toward the sheep pens. 

“Don’t I just,” they said. “How’s this?” They held up their spinning. 

Seonaid took their ball of yarn and began critiquing, her words covering the sounds of disgruntled bleating from outside. 

Crawly grinned. 


	42. 3599 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

_3599 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia._

“I still think this is a bad idea,” Eve said. “Enos left us all behind a long time ago.”

Aziraphale stood with Adam and Eve outside Enos and Noam’s home. They’d been summoned with no further context or instruction two days earlier, and spent most of that time arguing over whether or not to give them the time of day. 

“We must give everyone a chance for forgiveness, my dear,” said Aziraphale. “And, for all we know, this meeting could have nothing whatsoever to do with our… differences.”

“It’s Enos, Aziraphale,” said Eve. “He’s been like this for two hundred years.”

Footsteps sounded just inside the door. 

“One hundred and ninety-seven years, give or take,” said Aziraphale serenely, nodding to Noam, who’d just opened the door. “Hello—I understand we’ve been invited?”

Noam nodded. “Come in.”

Aziraphale cast a smile to Eve and Adam. “After you.” He followed them in, closing the door gently. 

Noam led them to a large, airy room decorated in clay mosaics. Evidently, he and Enos had found success in Ur. 

“Aziraphale,” said Enos by way of greeting. “Grandmother. Grandfather. May the god Nanna* keep you in good health.”

(* Upon their arrival in Ur, Enos and his followers had quickly learned about the city’s patron moon god Nanna and found him very compatible with their own beliefs.)

Aziraphale nodded stiffly. Adam and Eve didn’t respond. 

“It has come to our attention that you’ve been speaking with members of my tribe again,” said Enos. “You know that’s not allowed.”

Oh, fiddlesticks. It would seem this _was_ about that after all. Of course, it had been the most likely outcome, but Aziraphale was optimistic. Unfortunately, he’d spoken with Heaven recently and been instructed not to interfere should the matter arise again. 

“They’re my grandchildren,” said Eve forcefully. “I have a right to speak to them.”

“No, they’re not your grandchildren,” said Enos. “They are my and Noam’s children, and your great-grandchildren. Our grandchildren, and your great-great-grandchildren. And so on. If you wanted to talk to people who believe in a single god, you should have stayed with Seth and Azura.”

Eve appeared ready to say something else, but Adam raised his hand and spoke. “If we’ve been acting beyond what we’re allowed to do, it’s only because we care about them. Integrating into the city has been difficult for us. It’s full of unfamiliar people, and we’re old.”

Noam crossed his arms. “Maybe you should go talk to the ‘unfamiliar people,’ then, and not our people, who’ve clearly told you that they don’t want your advice.” 

Enos sighed, suddenly looking very old and very small. “I have no quarrel with you but the one you choose. Please, if you’re going to be like this, leave my house. Don’t come back, and don’t talk to the people of my tribe.”

Eve looked stricken. “Enos—”

“He’s made himself clear,” said Noam, stepping between them. “Now leave us alone.”

They left quietly, and Eve cried for the walk back to their own homes. 


	43. 3589 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

_3589 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia._

Crawly opened their eyes. They were back in Uruk. The humans standing around stared at them in mild shock, which was understandable considering they’d spontaneously appeared there. They grinned at them and blinked deliberately. “Afternoon.”

The humans scattered. 

Crawly chuckled. Probably not the best entrance, really, but fun all the same. Half a dozen humans couldn’t make much of a dent in the public opinion of a few tens of thousands in the city. Not to mention, they’d been gone for over a hundred years. Considering how short-lived the humans here were, they practically got a fresh start!

They began walking, taking in the changes. There appeared to be a new temple, looming over the rooftops. The people dressed slightly differently now, too—fewer animals skins, more wool and linen.

They entered a square where a number of humans were sitting around and talking. Most were in little groups, or the big conglomeration toward the middle of the square. One, though, stood by themself off to the side.

Crawly walked up to the lone human. “Hi,” they said. “I’m new in town, trying to get my bearings. What’s your name?”

“Assur-Risi,” the human said. “May the gods Inanna and Anu keep you in good health.”

“Likewise. I’m Crawly.”

“Hmm. I’ve heard that name before, I think.”

“I think names go a bit differently where I’m from,” said Crawly smoothly. 

Assur-Risi nodded. “That makes sense. Where are you from, anyway?”

“Bit of everywhere, at this point. North, most recently. You been in Uruk your whole life?”

“Yes—my grandparents moved here from Girsu. What brings you here?”

“Work,” said Crawly. “And a bit of curiosity. I’ve heard stories, but I reckoned they were out of date when they reached me.”

“Stories about what?”

“Oh, all sorts of things. The food. Industry. People. Thought I’d some see for myself.”

“Do you have a trade?” Assur-Risi asked.

“I can spin and weave,” Crawly offered. They’d spent a lot of time spinning to keep their hands busy during temptations. “And I’m a decent study when it comes to new things.”

“Spinning?” Assur-Risi looked them up and down, confusion written across their face. 

It was hilarious, but Crawly just raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, spinning. Problem?”

“No, I’d just assumed you were a man.”

Ah, that. Crawly’d thought they looked fairly ambiguous, but perhaps Uruk had gotten more gendered since they’d last been around. “Do men not spin around here?”

“Oh, er—not so much, no. They do where you’re from?”

“Doesn’t tend to matter where I’m from,” they said airily. Mainly because no one had a gender anyway. “What was it you were saying?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking of starting up a business, of a sort. And it sounded like you could use a start in the city.”

Crawly grinned. They could work with that. “What sort of business?”

“I’m not completely sure yet, but I was thinking of doing something in construction. The Eanna district is growing. You seem… savvy.”

Savvy? All right. “I know my way around. What do you get out of doing construction?”

“I mean, with all the new temples going up, there are a lot of priests involved. I’m not priest material myself, but it seems like a good idea to meet some, you know?” Assur-Risi shrugged. “It’s probably silly.”

“No, no—not at all. Sounds to me like you have a good plan. Just got to follow through, make sure it goes the way you want.” Crawly paused, watching Assur-Risi’s expression before continuing. “Why don’t we take a walk? You can tell me more with fewer people around.”


	44. 3578 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

_3578 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia._

Aziraphale perused the collection of fish in the market. With Adam and Eve having increasing difficulty walking around for long periods of time, he’d begun doing little errands to help out. 

He selected a few fish that seemed in decent condition, paid the vendor a bowl of grain, and left the stall. He’d walked about half of the way to Adam and Eve’s when a youth ran out of an alley and stopped in front of him. 

The boy was dressed in wool, like most young people in Ur, it seemed, with coiled black curls and something familiar to his face. 

“Excuse me, I’m afraid I need to deliver these fish to some friends of mine, and you’re rather in my way.”

“Are you Aziraphale?” The boy asked. 

“Yes,” said Aziraphale cautiously. “And who might you be? I don’t believe we’ve been acquainted.”

“Enoch,” said the boy. “My father’s name is Jared. I’m part of Enos’s tribe.”

Oh, dear. “I’m afraid I’m not permitted to speak to you, then.”

“I know,” said Enoch. “I want to know why not. I want to meet my family.”

“Your… family?”

“Adam, and Eve. They’re my great-great-great-great-grandparents. No one would tell me why we’re not allowed to talk to them, and I don’t like it.” 

“I see,” said Aziraphale. “Well, I’m just on my way to visit Adam and Eve now. I’ll have to speak with them about meeting you.”

“Makes sense,” said Enoch. “Can I come, though?”

“I suppose,” said Aziraphale, beginning to walk again. 

“Is it true that you only worship one god?” asked Enoch.

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, it is.”

“Woah. That’s cool. Seems a lot simpler.”

“It is, rather. Though I’ve never sampled the alternative.”

“Why not?”

Aziraphale did not grumble. “Because, dear boy, I am quite immutably convinced of the existence of the one, single God, and so, disinclined to worship others.” 

And also because he was an _Angel_. While he wasn’t about to force humans to do the same thing as he did—that seemed rather rude—it simply would not do for an Angel to worship or condone the worship of other gods. 

“What makes you so convinced?” Enoch asked. “Also, is it true that you can do magic?”

Aziraphale nearly dropped his fish. “Would it be too terribly difficult for you to stop asking questions until I’ve spoken with Adam and Eve?”

“Sorry.”

He humphed and turned the corner to go up to the house. He instructed Enoch to wait outside, then went in. Adam and Eve were sitting together, talking. 

“Hello—pardon me. I found the fish. Erm. There’s a young man here to see you.”

“Really? Who?” Eve asked.

“Enoch. He says he’s Jared’s son, and he wants to speak with us about God, it would seem.”

Adam raised his eyebrows. “Show him in, then, please.”

Aziraphale nodded and went back out. Enoch was standing outside the door, nudging pebbles with his toe.

“You can come in now,” said Aziraphale. 


	45. 3571 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

_3571 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia._

Aziraphale checked his reflection in a copper mirror. He’d never attended a wedding before, and it wouldn’t do to make a bad impression at the first. The tassels on his sheepskin clothing were aligned and his short white hair neatly coiled. 

He rubbed a hand over his chin for a moment. It was the style for men in Ur to wear beards these days, it seemed. He hadn’t succumbed yet, though, and it would be odd for one to appear. Not to mention, he rather liked the ambiguity presented by not wearing one. 

A knock sounded at the door of his modest house, and he went to open it. Eve stood there, leaning slightly on Adam beside her. “Aziraphale,” she said. “Ready to go?”

“It would seem so,” he said, straightening his tassels nervously. 

“Good. Enoch would be sad if you didn’t show up.” Eve stepped out of the way. “Shall we?”

“Yes, I suppose it is… that time. Er.” He stepped out, shutting the door behind him. Aziraphale grimaced—the sun was rather bright today, and had recently begun hurting his eyes. “Which way?”

“Just at his house,” Adam said. “Are you all right?”

“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be? It’s a wedding. Happy event of… love, and togetherness. I’m just splendid.” He gestured toward Enoch’s house. “On we go!” He prodded Adam in a way it’s generally thought one should not prod four hundred and thirty-three-year-olds. “There’s a smart chap,” he said when Adam began moving. 

Aziraphale was not all right. Weddings were new. He’d spent rather a lot of time so far with humans, and never attended one. It was an entirely new concept, as far as he was concerned. Something thought up by these Sumerians. And he wasn’t entirely sure whether it was entirely acceptable, eschatologically speaking. It hadn’t really been addressed. 

It seemed as though it ought to be acceptable. After all, it was an expression of love, albeit romantic, and Heaven was all for love. It was rather the point, in fact. Still, seeing as it was a pagan ritual in his understanding… it seemed more ambiguous than was comfortable. 

The thing was, if weddings were not, in fact, acceptable, and Aziraphale was found at one—well, it didn’t bear thinking about. Heavenly regulations aside, he didn’t fancy being party to something like that. 

It had all happened so quickly. Why, he’d only met Enoch seven years ago! He’d met young Baraka the year after that! And now they were getting married. 

Humans moved so quickly these days. 

All the same, he was going. Enoch had been studying with Adam and Eve for seven years, learning the knowledge of God which his immediate family had refused to teach him, and if Aziraphale was honest, he’d become somewhat fond of the boy. He was very bright, and earnest, and perceptive. 

Eve patted his arm. “Aziraphale? We’ve arrived.”

He started. “Oh dear. It would seem so.”

They stood in front of Enoch’s house. He could hear humans inside, chattering away. 

He took a deep breath, and squared his shoulders. He just needed to buck up a bit. He was the Guardian of the Eastern Gate and he was going to attend this wedding. 

“Well,” he said cheerfully. “In we go!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Human lifespans unfortunately do not mesh well with a one-scene-per-decade setup when alternating point of view, so here's a second Aziraphale scene for today. Rest assured that both he and Crowley will have an even division of scenes in the end, as far as I can manage.


	46. 3557 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied/referenced adultery.

_3557 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia_. 

“Would one time really hurt, though?” Crawly asked. “I mean, considering.”

“I suppose… he wouldn’t have to know. And if my husband never found out, he wouldn’t get hurt…”

“He doesn’t get hurt, you get what you want— win-win, am I right?”

Crawly’s latest temptee pursed her lips. “I guess so.” She exhaled sharply. “Okay. I can do this. I’m _going_ to, and he won’t find out, and we’ll both be happy, right?”

“You got it,” said Crawly. 

She nodded decisively. “Thank you. You’ve been a big help.” She stood up and walked toward the young man who’d been flirting with her all evening. 

Crawly rolled their eyes. Adultery was so boring. Simple, though. Half the young people in Uruk these days seemed to be just looking for an excuse. Which Crawly was perfectly happy to give, especially with their reports looking a little drab recently. 

A young man sat down in the chair across from Crawly. “Rough night?” he asked. 

“You could say that,” said Crawly, sitting up, eyeing the man. Judging by his clothes, he was reasonably wealthy, but not quite so much as everyone else at the party—there was wool peeking out from under his linen outer layers. Interesting. “You?”

“I just arrived from Ur,” said the man. “Friend of mine invited me. Thought it couldn’t hurt, but now I’m exhausted.”

“I know that feeling,” said Crawly. “Sometimes I think I could sleep for a whole year.”

They didn’t sleep at all, but that was beside the point.

The man laughed, then took a drink from his cup of what was most likely palm wine. “I wish,” he said. “I’d take a month, at this point.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been travelling a lot. I’m a messenger for the king of Ur. It’s my job. I just wish I could take a proper break for once, y’know?”

“Why don’t you?” asked Crawly. “Looks like you’ve done well enough to take a few days off.”

Getting someone to abandon his post was probably worth a few minutes’ tempting, right? Especially a messenger. Seemed an excellent way to get loads of people angry all at once.

“It’s a long story,” he said. 

“I’ve got time,” said Crawly, giving him their most convincing smile. 

He sighed heavily, sitting back in his chair. “Here’s the thing. I used to be—well, I used to not work at all. I live with my family, and I didn’t have to. My siblings earned plenty of money for all of us, so I didn’t do anything.”

He paused, taking a drink of wine. “Thing is, a few years back, I was out on the promenade. Lazing around, drinking wine, that sort of thing. And this man comes up to me, right? Just—ordinary bloke, as far as I can tell. Hair’s weird, but you get all sorts on the promenade in Ur. ”

Crawly grunted in vague affirmation. 

“He just looks at me, and it’s like he can see everything. And I mean _everything_. And the man, he says to me, ‘I think that’s quite enough of that, don’t you?’ Point is, we got to talking, and by the end of it, I was convinced I needed to do something with my life. So I became a messenger, and here I am.”

Crawly raised an eyebrow. “So a man talked to you on the beach once and now you feel like you can’t take a break? Rotten luck if you ask me.”

The man shrugged helplessly. “He just had this feeling about him.”

“A feeling?” asked Crawly, dubiously. 

“Yeah, I don’t know. He just… he seemed _old_. White hair, those old sheep skin clothes no one wears anymore. Though he didn’t look that old. Probably about your age. I just felt like I needed to make him proud. Like if your grandad came up to you and asked you to do something with your life.”

Shit. It was the Angel, wasn’t it? White hair, and about as old as Crawly. The Angel was in Ur, messing up Crawly’s humans. He had Adam and Eve and all their descendants, for Hell’s sake! Well. Crawly wasn’t having it. 

They leaned back casually. “I don’t think he meant for you to be working _all_ the time. Bit overboard, that. You can’t help people without taking some time to yourself, not really.”

“I don’t know,” said the stranger, twisting the hem of his linen outfit with one hand. “I take breaks. Just not for a month at a time.” 

“I’m sure the king can get along without you for a few days. That’s barely anything, in the grand scheme of things.” Crawly snagged a cup of wine from a passerby and miracled the contents into the stranger’s own cup. “You deserve a break. It’s been how many years since this?”

“Four.”

“Four years and not one month-long break! You’ll work yourself into nothing at all if you keep that up. All that messenging. Is messenging a word?”

“Doubt it.”

“Anyway,” said Crawly. “You should take a break. A proper one. Sounds like you’ve worked enough in the past four years to count for a lifetime.”

“Maybe…”

“Give it a try. Take a week, see how it goes,” said Crawly. “The world can run without you.”

“A week sounds nice,” the stranger said, then timidly— “d’you think I could get away with two?”

“Oh, absolutely,” said Crawly, with a smile.


	47. 3548 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely sure whether or not this warrants a warning, but there's some stalking-esque behaviour in here. It's not malicious or controlling, but it's definitely not consented to/discussed beforehand either.

_3548 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_. 

Ur was a lot bigger than Crawly imagined it being. Before he’d left on his jaunt around the world, it had been just gaining prestige, and he hadn’t bothered revising his idea of it when he got back. 

Now, it was a proper city—hundreds of buildings and tens of thousands of people. The sort of city that hid its inhabitants with sheer numbers of humans. 

Or it would, if Crawly were looking for a human. 

After hearing about the Angel’s arrival in Ur nine years ago, he’d honestly tried to avoid thinking about it. If they each stayed in their respective city, there probably wouldn’t be a problem, after all. 

The thing was, Aziraphale wasn’t meant to be here! He was supposed to stay in—wherever the place he’d been was called. It had worked, bless it all. And now he was messing up Crawly’s temptations, which was aggravating at best and infuriating at worst. 

Not to mention, if they happened to cross paths by accident, there’d be Heaven to pay. Literally. And Crawly didn’t fancy getting smote.

So this was the only solution, really. Work out where exactly Aziraphale was, then avoid him. Simple. 

There was an Angel in the city. Crawly’d been able to feel that much from a few miles out. The question was where, and how to pinpoint him without alerting him to Crawly’s presence, any more than would happen by getting close. 

They stayed on the outskirts for a few days, getting a sense for the area and keeping track of the relative location of the divine presence within the city. 

After nearly a week—not exactly a week, mind you. Probably bad luck for a Demon, doing something for a week and then resting—Crawly went into the city proper. 

They found Aziraphale on the promenade overlooking the sea, where the messenger had said he’d be. 

The Angel was chatting with some fish vendors, of all people. Was he actually _eating_? Seemed worse for an Angel to eat than a Demon, but what did Crawly know. 

It was definitely Aziraphale. He was wearing different clothes now, but it was him. Though the clothes were in terrible taste—animal skins in a fashion at least a century old. And his hair was the same fluffy white as ever. 

It turned Crawly’s stomach just looking at him. 

He had half an urge to just walk out from behind the stack of jars he was hiding behind, just to see if the Angel really would smite him, but that was probably a bad idea. Though the outcome, would, technically speaking, be good. It would be a bad idea, if one thought Crawly’s continued survival was good. Which it wasn’t. Bless it. Being a Demon really messed up terminology. 

All right. He’d found the Angel. 

He snapped his fingers, taking himself back to his house in Uruk just as the Angel turned around to see nothing but empty space. 


	48. 3538 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence.

_3538 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_. 

Aziraphale straightened up to a standing position, knees protesting from their position where he’d been squatting for the past half hour to speak with a small child in need of some guidance. Human bodies were so finicky.

The child ran in the other direction, presumably back to their family. They’d been making off with their younger brother’s food, though they had plenty of their own. 

He hummed contentedly and continued on to the fish vendor. They original owners had recently retired, passing the business to their children, who chose to keep it running. This had surprised all the patrons but Aziraphale, who’d spent the better part of a week persuading them that really, they’d rather sell fish than keep up their metalworking. 

After all, so many people counted on the fish, it was simply the right thing to do! 

After purchasing two fine specimens, Aziraphale began meandering back toward Adam and Eve’s house. He’d drop off the fish there, then return to his own house for a bit of respite. 

He was working hard these days. Ur had many humans, most of whom were in need of some kind of guidance. Though from what he’d heard, it was in a better state than Uruk, which, it would seem, had not yet recovered from the Demonic influence it had been subjected to a few centuries back. 

Aziraphale paused to look out over the sea one last time before he would go into the buildings. It was ever so lovely. The Almighty’s craftsmanship never failed to awe him. 

He turned and walked into the buildings. There were more of them now than when he’d arrived, and it was fascinating seeing the new things humans came up with to decorate them, or make them more suitable to their purposes.

Someone shouted in what sounded like pain. 

Oh dear. 

There was a thud. 

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, delivering the fish to a spot in the aether that would keep them fresh, and went to find the source of the sound. 

In an alley, he found a pair of humans, one of whom held a knife, standing over a third, who was curled on the ground, bleeding. 

That simply wouldn’t do. 

“Excuse me!” Aziraphale said. “I couldn’t help but overhear. Has this person wronged you somehow?”

The standing humans turned to look at him. “None of your business,” said one of them. “Go away, old man.”

“Only correct on one count,” said Aziraphale breezily, “and the other doesn’t quite apply how you’re thinking. I would advise you to leave this person alone and go in peace, or I shall be obliged to intervene.”

The one who’d spoken gave a dreadful smirk. “What do you think you can do to us, anyway?”

Aziraphale sighed. “I did warn you, really.” 

He walked up, shoving the unarmed one into the wall, and seizing the other by the wrist hard enough that they dropped the knife. 

The one against the wall began squirming and protesting, but Aziraphale kept him pinned. “Now, I would advise you to go home and rethink your choices. Surely whatever compelled you to do this can be solved some other way.” He paused. “Is this enough? I can demonstrate my physical strength further if need be. It’s no trouble.”

They nodded, and he released them. “Good. Off you pop.”

The humans ran away, and Aziraphale knelt over the fallen human, who was breathing raggedly. Their blood stained the sand. 

Aziraphale pressed a gentle hand to their wound and closed his eyes. It knitted itself back together, and the human’s breathing eased, asleep. 

He opened his eyes. “There we are. No harm done.” He stood again, frowning at his hand and clothing in distaste. He was all bloody now, and try as he might, he couldn’t imagine it gone well enough to miracle himself clean. Oh, well. 

He retrieved the fish from the aether and continued on to Adam and Eve’s house. 


	49. 3530 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

_3530 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia_. 

Crawly knocked on the door of his newest temptee’s office, and put on his most innocent expression. Before too long, a servant came to open the door and he swept inside, pausing only to ask where the temptee would be. 

He’d had an idea, just the month earlier, while watching the new canal flood. The canals made getting around the city quite a bit easier, and things that were easier generally improved peoples’ moods. So, given that bad moods were conducive to sin, if he could stop the canals working somehow, people would sin more. 

Since having the idea, he’d asked around a bit, and heard about an architect who apparently disliked canals. 

“S’cuse me,” said Crawly, entering the office. “Are you Adad-iddinam?”

“Yes.” He stood from where he’d apparently been working on a business design. “Crawly, I assume?”

“That’s me.”

“May the gods Inanna and Anu keep you in good health.” He gestured to a chair facing his own. “Sit. It sounded from your messenger that you’re wanting something built?”

Crawly accepted the seat. “Yeah. I heard you do good work, with discretion.”

“I do,” said Adad-iddinam proudly. “What are you wanting, then?”

“My relatives live on a canal,” began Crawly.

Adad-iddinam made a face. “I don’t do canals.”

Excellent. 

Crawly affected an uncertain demeanor. “Well, the thing is… I don’t particularly like my relatives. So—well. You can be discreet?”

“Of course I can,” said Adad-iddinam. 

“Right, right.” They sighed. “I don’t like my relatives. My brother-in-law is exceedingly boring, and last time I met him he insulted my wife. So… well, I’ve claimed the property opposite, in a sort of show of brotherly affection, if you follow.”

“I follow.” He looked a bit dubious, but still interested. Good. 

Or, bad. 

Whatever.

“So I was hoping you could build my house on the canal in such a way it might… compromise the canal, if you catch my drift?”  
Adad-iddinam looked shocked. Maybe Crawly went a bit too hard to begin with. He’d had that trouble in the past.

“You’re asking me to build a house so it collapses into the canal?”

“Er… yes?”

“You realize what that would do to my reputation?”

Bless it. Oh, well—one more shot and then he’d cut his losses. “What, you think you can’t build it so it looks like an accident?”

Adad-iddinam crossed his arms. “I didn’t say that.”

Crawly waited. 

“It would cost more,” said Adad-iddinam carefully, “to make it look like an accident.”

Crawly resisted the urge to grin Demonically. “Price is not an issue for me. You think you can do it, then?”

“Of course I can,” he said. “What materials did you have in mind?”


	50. 3517 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

_3517 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_. 

Aziraphale went to the table with a bowl of stew for Enoch and sat down, pushing the bowl across to him. “Now, then. What brings you here?”

“You’re not eating?” Enoch said, watching him with concern and a tad too much perceptiveness. 

“No. Was there something you wanted to ask me?”

“Yes,” said Enoch. “Why don’t you eat?”

Aziraphale sighed heavily. This had been some time coming. Though Eve had agreed not to tell him, it seemed most humans worked it out sooner or later. Even Adam knew he was an Angel, now. 

“I’m an Angel,” he said. 

“Ah,” said Enoch intelligently. “Sorry, you’re a literal Angel?”

“Yes, I am.”

Enoch sat back, ignoring his stew. “Like the one who gave them the sword?”

Oh, dear. That was the bit they _hadn’t_ worked out, and he wasn’t sure if it was preferable that way or not. “Yes, rather like that. Broadly speaking.”

“Right. Have you got a sword?”

“I haven’t,” said Aziraphale. “Is there any point to this interrogation or are you enjoying asking me inane questions?”

“Sorry,” said Enoch, looking suitably chastised. 

“Good,” said Aziraphale. 

They sat in silence for several minutes. Enoch began eating his stew again, but didn’t say anything. 

Aziraphale fiddled with one of his tassels. 

A bird flapped by outside. 

A sheep made a sheep noise. 

“It was me,” said Aziraphale quietly. “Don’t tell Eve, she’d have a fit. Or Adam. He’d tell Eve.”

“It was you what?” asked Enoch.

“My sword,” said Aziraphale.

Enoch frowned. “Really? I thought the Angel who did that would have Fallen.”

Aziraphale inhaled sharply, and gave a quick shake of his head. “Most certainly not. Adam and Eve would not have survived without it, and the Almighty didn’t seem terribly put out about it. It was a good deed.”

“I see. That makes sense. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. Is Falling a… tender subject? For Angels?”

“It was an unpleasant chapter of our history,” he said stiffly. “And a subject best avoided.”

“Right, I see. And Fallen Angels are Demons, right?”

“Yes—nasty things,” said Aziraphale with conviction. 

Enoch nodded. “Wasn’t there one after the Garden?”

“Crawly. She caused you lot to be cast out of the Garden and tempted Cain to murder his own brother.” He was still rather put out over that. “I really ought to have smote her.”

“You didn’t?” asked Enoch.

“It wasn’t the done thing. And she left anyway, so it really isn’t so bad, all things considered.”

“Back to Hell?”

“No. I believe she’s in Uruk these days.”

“So close?”

“The humans I am tasked with watching over—that is, Adam, Eve, and their descendants—are here. As such, I mustn’t leave you, and what happens in Uruk is not my concern.”

Gabriel had been quite clear on that point. 

“Did God tell you that?” asked Enoch curiously.

“I haven’t been in touch. Too busy keeping an eye on all of you. The Archangels handle most of the communication with Her these days.” 

“Efficient,” remarked Enoch. 

“Quite,” he said. 

And really, it did make sense, considering how the Divine Plan was infallible and all, that She could step out for a few centuries. Or a millennium or two! It was a testament to Her foresight and the love with which She had created the Earth that it could be let alone for a bit. 

“Heaven sounds nice,” said Enoch, then paused. “Is there any chance I might have some more stew?”

“Oh, please,” said Aziraphale. “I made a second portion. Keeping up appearances, you know.”


	51. 3510 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

_3510 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia._

“Crawly!” Adad-iddinam said jovially. “May the gods Inanna and Anu keep you in good health. I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I couldn’t miss the opportunity to see my favourite architect,” said Crawly. “Congratulations on your new appointment.”

An invitation to a celebration of his promotion to city-wide overseer of canal construction was too convenient to pass up. 

“Thank you very much,” said Adad-iddinam. “How is your wife?”

“Oh, er, well. Yeah. Very well indeed.*” Crowley dodged someone’s arm and snagged a cup of wine. “Would you happen to have a moment later on? I was thinking we could catch up.”

(*One of the problems with keeping up contact with people he’d tempted, Crawly found, was maintaining consistent backstories. Most of the time, it wasn’t so bad. There had been, however, one time when he forgot which gender he’d presented as to a particular priest of Anu. This slip-up resulted in a rather harried and altogether distasteful cover story which involved him claiming to be married to himself, two pairs of twins, and a thoroughly confused—but successfully corrupted—priest.)

“That sounds excellent. I’ll join you when I have an opportunity.” He looked past Crawly and waved to someone else. 

Crawly found a spot on a balcony and spent several minutes chatting with a young woman who’d been slighted by her husband. She left with the sort of quiet resolve that he’d come to expect leading to a pleased Dagon, and he directed his attention to watching the streets of Uruk. 

He’d only just finished causing a shipment of copper mirrors to verdigris when Adad-iddinam joined him. 

“Crawly. You look well.”

“As do you,” he said smoothly. “I was wondering—what convinced you to take a position building _canals_ , of all things?”

His expression changed instantly. “I couldn’t turn the king down, could I?”

“Ehh.” Crawly paused meaningfully, then added— “I guess not. How about this, then—why did you get a position building canals?”

“Word got around of those extra structural reinforcements I added to the one at your house,” he said sadly. The ‘reinforcements’ in question had, of course, been built specifically to look like they’d put up a valiant effort when they inevitably and deliberately failed. Crawly had been rather impressed. “And then I was building houses on canals all over the place, and then I was building canals themselves…” he sighed. “What have you gotten me into, Crawly?”

“Career of a lifetime,” he said easily. “Now that you have the authority, though, are you going to make the canals better, in your reckoning? Improve them? Make them better than ever so you don’t mind them so much anymore?”

Adad-iddinam shook his head. “I doubt there’s anything I could do to make them better. Abominations, the lot of them.”

His voice was starting to gain the indistinct sound of tipsiness. Excellent. 

“Too bad not everyone shares your opinions of them,” remarked Crawly, turning to face the doorway and lounging back on the balcony railing. “Or you wouldn’t be stuck in this mess.”

Adad-iddinam looked at him sharply. “Crawly, you’re brilliant!”

Crawly didn’t smile, instead adopting an expression of profound confusion. “What d’you mean?”

He glanced around, then said in a low voice, “if everyone else hated canals too, I wouldn’t have to build them.”

“True enough. How could you make that happen, though?”

“I could make them _worse_ ,” said Adad-iddinam with the tone of one who believes they’ve come up with a totally original idea which was not spoon-fed to them by a Demon. “Narrower, harder to navigate… but more stable.”

“How would that work, exactly?”

“I can build canals, mind you. I’m fantastic at building canals. That’s how I got here in the first place. I could build canals that are structurally perfect but impossible to navigate… difficult to cross…”

“All-around frustrating?” asked Crawly.

“Exactly. They’ll be perfect, so I look good, and a pain for everyone else. ‘This is just how canals _are_ ,’ I’ll say. And they all trust me.” He straightened up, grinning at Crawly. “Give me twenty years, and mark my words, they’ll all be begging me to stop building canals.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That marks five hundred years, folks! We're halfway done with the first millennium. (And a twelfth of the way done with the whole project, but that makes it seem absurdly long, so I'll ignore it.) Thank you to everyone who's joining me, kudos'ing, and commenting! There are some things coming up in the next five hundred years which I'm quite excited to share...


	52. 3498 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

_3498 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia_. 

There was a Demon in this city. Aziraphale was almost certain of it. It was likely why he’d been assigned to come here. There had apparently been an unusually large amount of nefarious activity and displeased humans in the area. And, since apparently some of Adam and Eve’s descendants lived in Uruk now, Aziraphale was responsible for keeping it in check. 

With a bit of luck, though, it was a large enough city he’d be able to avoid any unfortunate encounters. He didn’t fancy being morally obligated to smite someone today, thank you very much. 

Though of course, if he had the opportunity to do so, he could. It wouldn’t do to allow a Demon to continue messing about unchecked. Particularly if it were Crawly. He’d hoped she would’ve left the city by now, but the Demonic presence suggested it was rather the opposite. 

He asked a friendly man laying mud bricks at the outskirts of the city for directions and set off for the potters’ district. If the mud bricks came a bit faster and more precisely shaped from here on out, there was no way to trace it back to Aziraphale. 

In the artisans’ district, smooth vases and jars lined the ground of courtyards outside a multitude of shops. People carrying pottery walked with purpose, and people haggled everywhere. 

Aziraphale smiled. It was really very human, and not terribly different from Ur, which was pleasant. 

He walked up to a pair of humans engaged in an apparently heated argument. “Pardon me,” he said. 

They turned to look at him, one scowling. “What do you want, then?”

“It seemed to me as though you might be having a difference of opinion of some sort. I’m a bit of an arbitrator myself, so I was wondering if you’d like a bit of assistance.”

One of the humans, who sported an impressive beard styled in ringlets, jabbed a finger at the other. “This man stole my clay.”

“I did not! You’re mistaking me for someone else.”

“Your hands are covered in it,” the one with the ringleted beard said. 

Aziraphale held up a hand, projecting as much Angelic calm as he could, though he knew it didn’t necessarily affect these humans. “I’m sure we can come to some sort of mutually beneficial agreement. Now, then—” he looked pointedly at the one with clay-covered hands. “It is true that you have clay on your hands. I am not accusing you of anything, but might I ask how you got clay on your hands?”

“From the river,” he said, deflating slightly. 

“Jolly good.” Aziraphale looked back at the bearded one. “Why, other than the clay on his hands, are you of the opinion that he stole your clay? He’s evidently not in possession of it now.”

“I saw him.”

“Really? Did you see him clearly enough that you know with absolute certainty that he stole your clay?”

“No,” he said. “But I’m pretty sure.”

“Ah, and here we see the issue. Now then. Given that neither of you seem to be in possession of clay _now_ , would either of you object if we all went to fetch clay? For both of you.”

“Why do you care?” asked the one with the clay-covered hands. 

“I am an arbitrator, as I said. Of sorts. It’s rather my job.” Aziraphale smiled. “Off we go, then, gentlemen. We’d better get a wiggle on if we’re to get the clay before nightfall, I daresay.”

The one with the clay on his hands led them to a canal, where they boarded a little boat. 

The one with the beard took up driving, making a face. After a minute or two, the nose of the boat bumped into one of the sides. “I don’t like canals,” he said as he manoeuvered it free. 

“Whyever not?” asked Aziraphale. In Ur, the canal system was terribly convenient.

“They’re annoying. All wet and difficult.”

Another boat approached, both drivers giving each other looks of despair before moving toward the very edges of the canal. The boats brushed past each other very, very slowly, bumping with the slightest rock. 

Once they were past, the bearded man kept driving in silence, scowling at both the surroundings and the other occupants of the boat.

Oh dear. It would seem that Aziraphale would have plenty to do while he was here. 


	53. 3488 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

_3488 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia_. 

Crawly waved to a boat driver and waited for Asqudanum, a young architect, to catch up. “Warm day,” he remarked. “What was it you wanted?”

Asqudanum looked at him shyly. “It’s just—well, I heard that Adad-iddinam was a friend of your father’s.”

“You heard correctly.” Crawly gestured to the boat. “I’m heading for the Eanna district. Very busy, I’m sure you understand, but if you wanted to talk… I’ve got some time. And I can pay your way back if you like,” he said, tapping a container of oil at his side. 

“Oh—really?”

“Yeah,” said Crawly. “Why not? I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“Woah. Okay, okay. I’ll come with.”

Crawly smiled, stepping into the boat. “Come on, then.” He offered a hand to Asqudanum and helped him in, passing a standard payment of grain to the driver and sitting down. 

As they got under way, Crawly settled into the boat. “What brings you to me, anyway? Not every day the best up-and-coming architect in Uruk seeks out somebody like me.”

“Right, no.” Asqudanum took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I heard Adad-iddinam was a friend of your father’s. And, well—he’s something of a hero of mine.”

“My father, or Adad-iddinam?”

“Adad-iddinam.”

“Right, yeah. Makes sense. My dad was a right w—”

“Yeah. But I heard they knew each other, and I got the chance to talk to Adad-iddinam a last week.”

“Oh? He’s a bit old to be talking to people these days, isn’t he?”

Crawly had honestly assumed sometime in the last few years that he’d _died_ , since that was generally a safe assumption when he didn’t hear from a human for a few years. 

“He is getting on in years,” conceded Asqudanum. “But I got to talk to him! And he said that the secret to his success was your father, and that you and your father are very, very similar.”

Secret to his success? Humans were absurd. Adad-iddinam would arguably have been _more_ successful if Crawly hadn’t interfered. He probably would’ve kept building houses, which he actually enjoyed. Not to mention that Crawly had encouraged him to sabotage his own work… though he really was good enough at what he did that the humans seemed to overlook the problems. 

“Er, yeah, I hear that a lot,” said Crawly. “It’s all in the resemblance, far as I’m concerned.” Being the exact same person helped a lot, too.

“So I just wanted to talk to you. Since Adad-iddinam speaks so highly of your family.” Asqudanum bit his lip. “Is that okay?”

The boat bumped into the side of the canal for the third time in the journey. 

“I mean, obviously. Why else would I be talking to you? Honestly.”

Asqudanum had the sense to look reproached. “Sorry, Crawly.” He looked over the edge of the boat and sighed. “Canals are the worst.”

It was a testament to Crawly’s self-control that he didn’t break out into Demonic laughter right then and there. 

Instead, he coughed. A building a few meters back developed cracks that would see it collapsing within hours. A bird died suddenly and dropped out of the sky straight into the canal. 

“They really are,” he said casually. “What sort of advice were you wanting?” 


	54. 3477 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

_3477 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_. 

Aziraphale knocked at the door of Adam and Eve’s house. Though the house was once on the outskirts, in the hundred and fifty years since they built it, Ur had grown to the point that there were now two-odd neighborhoods between it and the edge of the city. 

A servant opened the door a crack, then all the way. “Aziraphale. She’s waiting for you.”

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale, walking into the house. 

Eve had stayed mostly indoors in recent years as she became increasingly infirm.

He turned off the hall into a room where Eve was sitting. She turned to see him. “Aziraphale! How are you?”

“Well enough, my dear.” He sat. “How is Adam?”

“Sleeping quite a lot these days,” she said, voice tinged with humour. “He’ll likely be along in an hour or so.”

“Lovely. I look forward to seeing him.”

Eve set down a clay tablet. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

“Oh, the usual,” he said. “I’ve been doing blessings in the artisans’ district, and around the temple complex. One potter of my acquaintance has begun using a wheel while he works! It makes lovely pots, though I can’t say I see the appeal of more perfectly formed material goods.”

Eve nodded. “I think I’ve seen pots like that around. They’re particularly round, is that right?”

“Very round indeed,” he confirmed. “Oh, and I spoke with Enoch recently.”

“How is he?”

“Getting on splendidly. It sounds as though young Methuselah and Edna are doing well, too. They’ve just had another daughter, I believe.”

“Another? Is that four now?”

“I believe so?” Frankly, Aziraphale had for the most part stopped keeping track of all the children in earnest around Seth’s fortieth child. He mainly remembered the ones with whom he interacted. Otherwise, it was simply too many! 

“And what have you been doing?” Aziraphale asked.

“Speaking with my friends, mainly.” Eve gave a sad smile. “Assur-sarrat died two days ago.”

“I’m so sorry to hear it,” he said earnestly.

She pursed her lips and nodded, then said— “Can I ask you a question, Aziraphale?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve been wondering. Do you know why Adam and I have lived so long? The oldest humans of our acquaintance haven’t lived nearly as long. Other than our family, of course.”

“I don’t, I’m afraid.” He paused, fiddling with the hem of his linen clothing. “I imagine it has to do with the Plan, though. And we mustn’t second-guess the Almighty.”

“Obviously not,” said Eve. 

Aziraphale pointedly didn’t acknowledge the trace of bitterness in her voice.

She lifted the clay tablet she’d been holding when he came in. “Did you see this?”

“What is it?” he asked. 

She held it out and he took it to examine. The clay had been inscribed with pictures, it would seem. He’d seen similar ones on the clay tokens humans used to record transactions and things. He hadn’t really bothered learning how they worked since he didn’t need to conduct transactions.

“It’s a contract,” Eve said.

“What, this piece of clay?”

“Yes—they write down the token symbols and a few others. Isn’t it fascinating?”

He frowned. “Well, I’m not sure what Heaven’s opinion of it would be. I’ll have to confer with Gabriel.”

Eve rolled her eyes. “I meant _your_ opinion, Aziraphale.”

“Oh. My opinion. Erm. It’s quite clever. Do they write anything besides contracts?”

“Not sure. I think it’s mostly records and things like that.”

“Ah. Well, I can’t say I’m especially fond of commerce. And it’s a bit silly to make a symbolic contract when one could simply say it.”

“It’s proof that the contract was made,” said Eve. “To keep people honest.”

“Ideally,” said Aziraphale, “people would be honest without a bit of tablet proving they’d agreed to it. So, theoretically speaking, I rather think I’d have to be against.” He passed the tablet back to her. 

Eve sighed. “Have it your way, then.”


	55. 3471 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied/referenced adultery and referenced murder.

_3471 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia_. 

Crawly wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing. While doing a temptation the day before, he’d heard of a philosopher named Amur-ili who apparently wanted to speak with as many different people as possible. Considering how much effort it usually took to get humans to talk to him, Crawly figured it would be either a free temptation or at the worst, an afternoon with a strange human. 

Not that those were difficult to come by. Crawly’d met some bizarre humans in his five hundred-odd years on Earth. Just a few years ago, he’d tried to tempt one to have an affair. They’d been very offended, kicked him out, remained faithful to their spouse, and murdered a farmer the next week in a fit of drunken rage. Crawly had been rather confused by that one. 

He stood in the courtyard of what was supposedly Amur-ili’s house, but no one was answering the door. Maybe he shouldn’t have trusted the kid three houses down to know who lived where. This house could be totally empty. Maybe Crawly was just making himself look gullible, standing here. Could be a prank local kids regularly played on unsuspecting Demons. Or people in general. 

He was about to turn and leave when the door opened. A dishevelled human looked out at him, scowling. “What d’you want.”

“Er… I’m looking for Amur-ili? Somebody said he wanted to talk to people.” Crawly tried not to cringe at how ridiculous he sounded.

The human gave him a lopsided smile. “I’m Amur-ili, and that’s ‘she’ to you.”

“Sorry,” said Crawly. “I tend to guess genders based on name.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Not by clothes?”

“Anybody can wear clothes,” he said vaguely. “Anyway. Did you want to talk to people?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I was just sleeping. Come in. It’s a mess, be warned.” She turned, going back into the house. 

“Sleeping?” he asked. “It’s the middle of the day.” He stepped inside, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. They’d started doing that recently. It was weird.

The house was small, just one room, built of simple mud brick. There were jars and bags of what was probably food in one corner, and various items strewn across the ground. There were bits of wood leaned against the wall, probably shielding windows. 

“So?” Amur-ili seemed to be rummaging somewhere.

“Yeah, fair enough,” he said. “Erm. What exactly are you doing… here?”

“Talking to people. Thinking. I help out on my family’s farm when I have to.”

“Why not live with them?” Most people lived with their families, in Crawly’s experience.

“Boring,” she said, moving to a chair toward a couch. “Come sit. You’re here to talk to me, right?”

“Yeah.” He walked in and sat on the couch as she gestured. 

Amur-ili sat in the chair and leaned forward. “So. You know my name but I don’t know yours. Do you think that’s a good thing or not?”

“Er…” 

He scratched his jaw. “I s’pose… it’s not a thing that’d be good or bad. It’s just a thing, y’know?” Though an argument could probably be made that a Demon knowing your name was bad somehow… “Or I guess it could be bad.”

“Hmm. Why?”  
“It’s a power imbalance, right? Like, I could go out and say bad stuff about you but you couldn’t about me. Or holler your name and make you jump. Or impersonate you. Or—”

“I get it,” she said, sounding amused. Amused! Bit rude, that. “What is your name, then?”

Bless it. He’d just argued that her not knowing his name was bad, which meant that, strictly speaking, telling her would be good, and that would be, for lack of a better word, bad. 

Still, he hadn’t really _meant_ his argument. He was just making stuff up in the course of a temptation, wasn’t he? Most Demons said stuff they didn’t really, properly mean while doing temptations, didn’t they? Or they would, if any other Demons did temptations. 

“Crawly,” he said. 

“May the gods Inanna and Anu keep you in good health, Crawly,” she said. She narrowed her eyes and examined him. “What’s that expression?”

“What expression?”

“You made an expression when I said ‘may the gods Inanna and Anu keep—’ You did it again!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Crawly honestly.

“It’s like you don’t believe me,” she said in fascination. “I can identify disbelief, at least.”

“I’m not much for… religion,” he said.

She grinned. “Now we’re getting someplace. Want something to eat? I’ve got cheese and some barley bread.” 


	56. 3457 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to both torture and murder.

_3457 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia._

Crawly leaned against the base of the wall of Amur-ili’s house. “See, the thing is, I didn’t. I honestly didn’t do it. I was just… there. And this Angel assumes it was me!”

Amur-ili looked at him skeptically. “Isn’t that a reasonable assumption? Given that it’s literally your job to make humans do bad things.”

“Yes, but it’s _his_ job to be eternally forgiving and all that.”

“And forgive a Demon?”

“Shut up.” Crawly sighed, sitting up. “See, it’s not that I think I would hypothetically deserve forgiveness if I did cause people to murder other people. It’s, objectively speaking, a rotten thing to do.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“The thing is, it shouldn’t matter how ‘unforgiveable’ whatever I’ve done is, because their lot is supposed to be infinitely forgiving. But they’re obviously not,” he said gesturing to himself. 

Amur-ili shrugged. “Sounds like you’ve got yourself a situation.”

“Tell me about it,” said Crawly. “And it doesn’t help that he’s all so righteous about it. I think he really thinks he’s doing the right thing. Which is absurd. He’s the one who gave Adam a whole sword.”

“And you got them to eat an apple and know the difference between good and evil at the same time?”

“Basically, yeah.”

“But isn’t that arguably worse? You can’t really be evil if you can’t understand what you’re doing.”

Crawly threw a pebble at her. 

Amur-ili grinned, then raised a finger. “Now, hang on. There’s one thing that’s confusing me about your whole story here.”

“What’s that?”

“Why aren’t you trying to get me to do evil?”

Crawly grimaced. It was, in all fairness, a reasonable question. He wasn’t totally sure, but he had the feeling it was the sort of thing he shouldn’t examine terribly closely. “Ehh. Asking questions is evil. I’ve got that from the highest authority.”

“I was doing that before you arrived,” she pointed out. “And I don’t think you really believe that it’s evil.”

“Oi,” he growled. “This is your warning. I’m warning you.” 

What he was warning her about, he wasn’t totally sure. He could hurt her, probably. Not especially pleasant though. For either of them. Still, he couldn’t have these things on the records. And it wouldn’t take long to frighten her out of it. Probably. 

She held up her hands in mock surrender. “Sorry.”

“Besides,” he said, “if I were trying to tempt you, you wouldn’t know it.” 

He had, technically speaking, tempted her to little things over the years. Her current prosperity was at least in part embezzled from her family. And she’d stolen quite a few trinkets over the years, at his encouragement. He hadn’t written them down as official temptations. More like hobbies, really. Just a bit of tinkering, so to speak. 

“Even if I knew that was your job?”

“Yeah. Half the point is making you think it’s your own idea.”

“But I wouldn’t do it.”

“Wouldn’t you like to think that.”

She threw the pebble back at him. “Go on then.”

“Nah.”

“Why not?”

“Then I’d have to report you to Hell. All the busybodies down there spend their days dissecting my reports, since no one’s up and died yet who’s under their jurisdiction.” And it seemed best to keep Amur-ili out of Hell’s books if he could help it. Though he wasn’t entirely sure if it was keep her away from them or vice-versa. 

“I thought you said you’d been here for five hundred years?”

“I have.”

“So, Adam and Eve haven’t died?”

“Not last time I was down there. Unless they all went to Heaven. Once Cain dies, then we’ll know.”

“You expect me to believe that there are people alive who’re over five hundred years old?” asked Amur-ili incredulously.

“I don’t. Not really. It doesn’t really matter what you think, anyway, because when it comes down to it, _you_ won’t live that long.”

“Rude.”

“Demon.” He grinned toothily. 


	57. 3449 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for minor character death.

_3449 BC. Outside Ur, Mesopotamia_. 

It was bound to happen eventually. Humans were only meant to last so long. It had been over five and a half centuries, after all. Adam had been around far longer already than he, strictly speaking, could have been expected to be. 

But that didn’t mean Aziraphale’s body was breathing, and it didn’t stop Eve from sobbing. 

They stood outside a cave just a few miles from Ur. Enoch’s little family was there with them, and no one else. The people of Ur buried their dead under their houses, but Eve had wanted Adam to be buried in the desert, in a cave, as Abel had been. 

They said prayers over his body, and burned the fragrant herbs he’d liked best, imported from somewhere far away. He’d been buried in clothes of leaves pieced together as he’d been when he left the Garden. Aziraphale’s sword was buried with him.

Aziraphale couldn’t very well say anything about it now. 

The sun sank in the sky, so very slowly. 

Aziraphale was old, and tired. 

Perhaps this post wasn’t quite right for him anymore. 

Adam had been the one who greeted him when he arrived, of course. Simple, naïve human kindness. To think that back then, he’d thought he couldn’t speak to humans at all… it seemed a very long time ago indeed. 

He adjusted his arm around Eve’s shoulders. 

His body had the courtesy not to complain at standing outside in the desert for so long. 

It felt wrong, though. 

Too tight around the edges. Like he’d been stuffed with felted wool, weighted with stones, and it was almost painful. 

Maybe this was the usual reaction. For humans, certainly. Something told him it wasn’t how Angels were meant to be.   
Then again, he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. 

He stood there with Eve for a long time. He convinced Enoch and Methuselah they could leave. Young Lameh, the baby, was growing restless anyway. 

The others left, and it was dark in the desert, and Eve held onto him and trembled.


	58. 3444 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for minor character death and grief/depression.

_3444 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_. 

Aziraphale lay in the bed in his house in Ur, staring at the ceiling. The bed was new. He’d miracled it there specifically for this purpose. It was probably not how one ought to use miracles bestowed upon them by Heaven. 

He wasn’t entirely sure how long he’d been there. The sun had gone down and come up several times. Someone had knocked on his door once. A commotion on the other side of the street had put a stop to that. 

The thing was, it had been five years. Five hundred and fifty peaceful years and then, five years was all it took to take away the two people who’d been there with him since Eden. 

Well, except for one. 

But she had no business in Aziraphale’s reverie. 

The worst of it was he was expected to carry on working. Gabriel’s visit had made that quite clear. He’d been pleased with Aziraphale’s influence on Adam and Eve. Apparently it was all there in their records, free for any Angel to see now they weren’t on Earth anymore.

He closed his eyes. Not seeing was nice sometimes. It did nothing for his other senses, of course. 

He could hear humans outside, and smell barley cooking somewhere, and feel his linen clothes on his skin. If he reached out his Angelic senses, he could sense all kinds of things he didn’t, generally speaking, pay attention to. 

A carved figure of a cow was loved by a small child in the house next door. A few young people down the block loved one another. The man who lived next door loved his squash plants. 

He could feel the networks all across the city. It was comforting, almost, to lose touch with his corporeal existence for a moment. Humans loved so many things, it was overwhelming. 

Perhaps he needed to be overwhelmed, metaphysically speaking. He’d grown too attached to individual humans down here. Wasn’t quite right for an Angel. Though of course he was meant to love all things. It seemed loving a few more than the rest… well, it was painful, it seemed. 

He let his body lay there and reached out, feeling for the humans and settling into it. The temples wouldn’t let him in, of course. That wasn’t a problem, as far as he was concerned. There was something odd about them he couldn’t quite put his finger on, and he was just fine with that. 

Beyond the city, people were more scarce, and every one of them was beautiful. 

Farther out, he felt the fringes of other cities, and—oh dear. 

A blot of what seemed to be a Hellish presence. 

Demonic, technically speaking. 

She poked him. Impertinent thing. 

He opened his eyes, breathing for the first time in weeks. Outside, the world smelled of rain. His skin seemed to be covered in a layer of dust. 

Perhaps he’d been out longer than he’d realized. Oh, well. 

He sat up and dusted himself off. His body protested at the sudden surge in activity, but he scolded it into cooperation. There were blessings to administer, after all. Guidance to give. 

Aziraphale was an Angel, and he wouldn’t let a little thing like attachment stop him from doing good. 


	59. 3425 BC - Eridu, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to both adultery and murder.

_3425 BC. Eridu, Mesopotamia_. 

Crawly leaned against the mule cart. “You don’t actually have to, y’know,” he said. “You could go do something worthwhile.”

The weaver’s apprentice he was tempting looked conflicted. “I said I’d be there, though.”

“They don’t actually need you though, do they? Strictly speaking. It wouldn’t _hurt_ anything if you just… got waylaid on your way by something totally unforseen. You said so yourself. They might not even notice you’d gone.”

The apprentice grimaced. “You’re not totally wrong there.”

“What else could you be doing today?”

“Well, I was just thinking I could go out to the fields.”

“Y’see? Get something to eat. Haven’t you earned a break at this point? How long have you been working, eh?”

The apprentice tied the rope around the mule’s neck to the post they’d taken it off of. “Too damn long, that’s what.”

“Go on, then. Have some fun, why don’t you?”

They grinned and jogged away.

Crawly turned and began strolling toward the market, whistling. He’d found his groove again. Properly. At his last review with Dagon, just a few months ago, they’d commended him on the sheer number of temptations he’d accomplished these last few decades. 

That’s why he was in Eridu. Thought he’d earned a little holiday.

In the market, he picked up a fruit from a stand, making eye contact with the vendor to stop them saying anything. They recoiled, and he smiled, moving on with a bounce in his step.

He tossed the fruit at a kid vacillating in front of a different fruit stall. They caught it, looking shocked. 

“I stole it,” he said, and kept walking. 

Two more, then—one ignoring injustice, one complicity in theft. On top of the apprentice shirking their duties and a more labor-intensive count of adultery. He’d spent an hour that morning waiting to deliver a message between the pair in a particular alley. He’d got it done, though, and got the Heaven out of there before anything went down.

“Crawly!” a voice shouted.

Strangely familiar, too. Probably an old temptee. Could probably use a top-up, whoever it was.

He turned, putting on his most charismatic smile. “Hey—oh, shit.”

The Angel stood there, dressed in fine linen, and looking absolutely livid.

A shiver of fear ran down Crawly’s spine. There were humans between them, though, and the Angel wouldn’t hurt them which was probably why Crawly wasn’t a smoking crater yet. “Is this still about Abel?” he asked. “’Cause that wasn’t me.”

“ **Demon** ,” said the Angel, voice booming off the walls. 

The humans looked at them both, suddenly frightened.

The Angel spread his wings, glowing faintly, and raised a hand toward Crawly.

Someone screamed.

Crawly turned and ran the other direction.

He could hear the Angel behind him—well, not so much hear as sense—but he tried to ignore it. How hadn’t he sensed that he was in the city? He’d been so tied up in his success that he hadn’t bothered to pay enough attention to notice a _literal Angel_ in the city.

He skidded into an alley and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He had to get out of here. But he couldn’t just vanish and appear somewhere else when he was this stressed. He had to focus.

The air around him crackled with divine energy, which wasn’t helping in the slightest.

He exhaled, forcing himself to relax, imagining images of Eden. Eden was calm. 

He had to get to Uruk.

The feeling of holiness dissipated and he opened his eyes to find himself in Amur-ili’s house. 

She looked at him bemusedly. “All right then. Lot of excitement?”

He fell to his knees on the ground, breathing hard. He felt terrible. Teleporting under stress was a bad idea. His body was all scrambled around and not quite right. Though that could’ve been the soup of stress hormones too. Hard to say.

Blasted Angel wouldn’t _listen_.


	60. 3424 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to both torture and murder.

_3424 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_. 

Aziraphale knocked on the door of Enoch’s house. He’d just arrived back from several months in Eridu, and was feeling rather travel-weary. 

Baraka opened the door. She looked him up and down. “Oh, Aziraphale. It’s been a while.”

“So it has,” he said. “I just wanted to, erm, let you know I was back in town.” 

“You left town?”

“I was in Eridu,” he said. “Sorry. Er, I’ll just pop off then.”

Of course he didn’t tell them he’d left. He hadn’t spoken to anyone in Enoch’s family for twenty years. He’d been busy. Wasn’t certain why he’d thought to come here now, either.

He turned to leave.

Baraka held out a hand. “Wait—you must be tired. Come in. Enoch will be happy to see you.”

“Really?” He frowned. “It’s no trouble. I’m not quite sure what I’m doing here myself.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “Unless you have somewhere important to be.”

“I haven’t,” he said. “Not as such.”

“Come in, then.”

He followed her in and found Enoch stringing beads onto a thread. 

Enoch looked up at Aziraphale. “Oh! Hello. What brings you here? Why don’t you sit?” He gestured to a couch.

“I just returned from a trip to Eridu,” said Aziraphale, settling onto the seat. 

“How was the journey?”

“Uneventful, mainly. Though we did just avoid a herd of unicorns.”

Enoch grimaced sympathetically. “I’ve heard those can be trouble. Did the trip itself go all right?”

“Well enough,” he said. “The blessings were effective. I inspired quite a few good deeds. Et cetera.”

Enoch looked away and picked up a bead, examining it closely. “Anything else of note?”

Aziraphale groaned, burying his head in his hands. “I found the Demon Crawly,” he muttered.

“That’s noteworthy,” Enoch observed. “Did she attack you?”

“Rather the opposite, I’m afraid,” he said quietly.

Enoch looked up, expression shocked. “She—what exactly did she do?”

“I beg your pardon. No, I attacked them.” Crawly had appeared more masculine, after all. Seemed rude to assume at this point.

Enoch nodded. “Oh, that makes more sense.”

“I certainly hope so,” said Aziraphale, sniffing. “They’re still lying. Which is expected, of course. Being a Demon.”

“Lying about what?”

“They keep claiming they didn’t tempt Cain to kill Abel,” he said disdainfully. 

“What if they’re telling the truth?” Enoch asked uncertainly.

“They aren’t. I saw them talking to Cain right after it happened, and quite often before that. Besides, they’re a _Demon_. That sort of thing is just what they do.”

“Are you sure?”

“They enjoy torture. I don’t think there’s anything more to it.”


	61. 3411 BC - Mohenjo-daro

_3411 BC. Mohenjo-daro, Sindh, Pakistan_. 

Crawly was done with Sumer. Again. Hell would probably send him back sooner or later, considering that’s where Adam and Eve’s descendants were, but for as long as they’d let him go, he was leaving. 

He’d heard of another land, southeast of Sumer, in some of his discussions with traders. So he waited until his next review with Hell, and now he was here. 

It wasn’t quite a city yet, he decided when he arrived. There were certainly fewer people than in any of the cities up north. But that was fine by him. It was big enough that he could disappear and have plenty of people to tempt all the same. 

With plenty of time before another review,* Crawly was taking some time off. Properly this time, not just performing temptations in a different city. Though of course he was still doing some temptations. Sometimes, they just presented themselves so obviously he couldn’t resist nudging a little.

(* Probably. It usually took a few decades in between, or at least several years, but Dagon had threatened more than once to make reviews bimonthly. Crawly didn’t really believe them, but the possibility still lurked at the back of his mind, which was probably, if he really thought about it, the point.)

And really, he was a Demon. He shouldn’t try to resist temptation. It was anathema. So to speak. 

The point was, he was in a marketplace, trying to sell things he’d brought with him from Uruk. He had a few lengths of finely woven linen, some beads, a few pots… one excellent thing about having supernatural abilities was that he didn’t have to bother with pack animals to transport stuff. And if he’d spent the two days after the trip laid up from the sheer volume of merchandise he transported, well. That was his own business, wasn’t it?

If someone _had_ found out, he’d have told them he was encouraging greed. Because he was, obviously. 

He was also, strictly speaking, avoiding the Angel. Their little run-in a few decades back had been… unpleasant, at best. He didn’t fancy experiencing that again.

The whole thing had only further convinced him of his impressions of the Angel, though: a massive hypocrite. ‘Greater good’ this and ‘infinite mercy’ that, then turn around, give the humans a whole weapon, and nearly smite somebody for something he didn’t even do!

Very much in line with Crawly’s impressions of the Almighty, though. 

Best not go there. 

He waved a strand of beads, calling out at the humans around him. More than a few scowled at him. One made an obscene gesture in his direction. 

He grinned, and started hawking louder.


	62. 3398 BC - Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for nudity.

_3398 BC. Heaven_. 

When Aziraphale arrived, Gabriel was waiting in corporeal form. He’d become more consistent about it in these last few centuries. Though he still hadn’t quite worked out the proper number of eyes. Or that humans generally wore clothes. 

Aziraphale hadn’t mentioned that bit yet. It seemed more than a little indelicate. And considering that Gabriel didn’t seem to have any intention of going to Earth for some time, it wasn’t especially pertinent to his duties either. 

“Aziraphale. Welcome.”

“Thank you.”

“How are your charges on Earth?”

“Well, I think. I’ve been conducting blessings and giving the usual… guidance, to the, erm. The people of Sumer. Adam and Eve died a few decades back. Terrible business, that.” Aziraphale was pleased to find his voice stayed even for the last few words.

“Ah, yes—excellent job with those two,” said Gabriel. “They arrived without complication.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale faintly. “You mean they’re here?”

Of course they were. It was Heaven, and he’d spent centuries with them, untainted by Demonic intervention. But he hadn’t properly registered it. Could he visit them? “Er—I don’t suppose, if my review is successful, and I have a bit of time before I have to pop back down to Earth—might I see them? Just to, er, debrief.”

“That is unnecessary,” said Gabriel. “And impossible. Their failure in the Garden of Eden has them placed in Hell. Your efforts on their behalf were admirable but inherently pointless.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “I see. Naturally.” He swallowed. “In that case, I’ll just—finish my report, then. Yes.”

“Wonderful,” said Gabriel.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Yes, well. Enoch is doing well.”

“Enoch. Isn’t he the infidel?”

“No. That’s Enos. Different ending. Enoch sought me out, and—well, Adam and Eve, in search of the truth. He’s a believer, I assure you.”

“I see,” said Gabriel. “What is he doing?”

“Good, simply. He spends his time serving the poor of the city. And praying. Good deeds, all round.”

“Hmm. Is he from the city?”

“Not as such. He was born in Ur, but he is a descendant of Adam and Eve.”

“So he is a descendant of the heretics.”

“Er. Yes, rather. But he has gone out of his way to follow the practices recommended to him by Adam and Eve.”

“And yourself,” said Gabriel.

“Well, yes. Of course, I tried to encourage Adam and Eve to do the actual teaching.” Most of the time. He did some, of course. Eve in particular had a tendency to send Enoch to Aziraphale on matters with which she and Adam were less well acquainted. 

“At any rate,” said Aziraphale, “in my personal opinion, his family history of heresy makes his faith all the more significant.”

Gabriel frowned. “In your _personal_ opinion?”

“Oh. In my professional opinion, that is. As the only Angel posted on Earth. I have more experience with humans than other Angels. Relatively speaking.”

“I see. You think his failure in youth elevates his current virtuousness.”

“Exactly. It’s a matter of how far he’s come, you see. Seth, for example, was born to a, well, comparatively more virtuous family. If he stays virtuous, he doesn’t actually become _better_ per se. Whereas Enoch was born to unbelievers, which means his current faith is all the more remarkable.”

“I see. I will discuss the matter with appropriate Heavenly authorities.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It may be worth noting that Gabriel's nudity is based on a late-night realization that 'I like the clothes' in episode 1 may have been an indicator that Gabriel didn't bother with them much before.


	63. 3390 BC - Mohenjo-daro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for attempted unwanted kissing.

_3390 BC. Mohenjo-daro, Sindh, Pakistan._

Crawly walked into the main room of Shantha’s house. She was their newest temptation, a relatively young woman from a wealthy family. 

Shantha sat on a low seat, examining a length of dyed cotton cloth. She looked up when they came in. “Lady Crawly! I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

Though Crawly met Shantha two years earlier through a mutual acquaintance, they’d met again by chance in a marketplace the day before. When Shantha asked them to visit so they could get to know one another again, Crawly had resolved to take her up on the offer as soon as possible. They’d been short on temptations for a few weeks now.

“Lady Shantha,” they said, dipping their head. “I hope you don’t mind. I happened to be nearby and thought I’d pop in.”

“Not at all,” said Shantha, setting the cloth aside. “Come, sit! We didn’t get to catch up properly yesterday. How are you?”

“Reasonably well,” said Crawly. “You?”

“About the same,” she said, smiling. “Though I had a disagreement with my sister this morning.”

Crawly grimaced in sympathy. “That’s unfortunate.”

“It will be all right before too long,” she said confidently. “It happens from time to time.”

Crawly continued the conversation, focusing on keeping their attitude casual while they considered her. 

Hell had recently updated the selection of things people could be tempted to, which was helpful. Apparently, being proud of oneself was damnable now. As was eating food for the sake of eating. Which was ridiculous, in Crawly’s opinion, but it made their job considerably easier, so they weren’t about to argue. 

It would probably be easiest to convince Shantha to be overly fond of herself. Specifically her appearance, which, if her description of her sister was in any way accurate, would probably result in some enmity between them, which wouldn’t hurt either. 

They shifted, facing her. “You know,” they said. “You’re a very attractive person.”

Shantha stopped mid-sentence, blinking. “Oh. Thank you.”

“Sure,” they said, looking her over. “Yeah. Very much so.”

Bless it, they hadn’t bothered to think up specific things. That’s what happened when they improvised on the job. 

“Your hair, for example. You take excellent care of it. Longer than most, y’know?”

Shantha looked vaguely confused, if flattered. 

“And, I mean, you clearly eat well,” said Crawly. That was considered attractive, wasn’t it? Had to be. “And your dancing? I’m surprised you’re not complemented more often.”

Shantha nodded slowly. “You really think so?”

She seemed to be coming around. Excellent. Crawly leaned forward.

“How could I not? With you looking… like that.”

She nodded, standing from her seat and going to sit next to Crawly. Weird, but they could work with it. They shifted to face her again. 

“Of course, it doesn’t hurt when you dress so finely,” they said. “You remember that time at the party, last winter?”

“Yes,” said Shantha, watching Crawly intently.

“Everyone was watching you. The fabric really flattered your skin tone. I heard several other people talking about you. All good things. Obviously.” Crawly smiled.

Shantha smiled too. “I didn’t realize you thought of me like that.”

Weird way to phrase it. Whatever. 

“Of course I do,” they said. “You’re gorgeous. You should flaunt it more, y’know. Everyone else can see it. Think—”

Shantha leaned into their face, and they fell backward off the couch. 

Bless, bless, bless, _bless_. She’d thought they were _flirting_ with her. What kind of incompetent Demon were they? Satan.

Way to screw it up, Crawly. Short of playing along—which, ugh—there wasn’t a way to salvage this. Humans were so touchy about that stuff.

They sat up again. “I think—think there’s been a misunderstanding here? Yeah. Just a bit.” They cleared their throat. “I’ll just be going, then.”

Shantha gaped at them as Crawly stood and walked out quickly. In the hall, they snapped their fingers and transported themself back to their house.

Crawly leaned their forehead against the wall. Another one to put on this of ‘things to Never Ever do again.’ 

And not tell Dagon about. 


	64. 3383 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to minor character death.

_3383 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_. 

Aziraphale stepped out into the afternoon sun. He’d just finished blessing an elderly couple who’d only recently been married. He’d ensured they’d have at least a decade together. It was rather lovely.

He made his way through the market toward his house. He didn’t spend terribly much time at his house, but kept it furnished enough that he could offer it to wayward humans who needed somewhere to stay without looking like an absolute ascetic. 

Someone shouted his name and he turned to look. An old, white-haired man dressed in wool robes waved shakily in his direction. 

Aziraphale didn’t recognize him, but turned and went to join him anyway. 

“Aziraphale!” the man said as he drew up to him. “You are Aziraphale, I take it?”

“Quite,” he said, scrutinizing the man’s face. He looked familiar, but he couldn’t place him. “I’m ever so sorry, but, er… I’m afraid I don’t recall who you are.”

The man’s face fell. “Seth,” he said. 

“Oh, good lord.” Aziraphale smiled. “Seth! What brings you to Ur?”

“I’m old. Azura and I heard about a city and decided to come stay. Will you come see my family? I’d like to talk but I would also like to be home before dark.”

“That sounds wonderful,” said Aziraphale. 

Seth led him away. “So tell me—if you’re here, is the rest of Enos’s tribe here as well?”

“Well, Enos and Noam are, to my knowledge, still in the city. The whole tribe arrived—oh, quite a while ago now.”

“And my parents? Are they here?”

Oh, bother. Aziraphale swallowed. “Erm. I’m afraid… Adam and Eve aren’t with us anymore.”

Seth stopped. “You mean… they’re dead.”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry.”

Seth nodded and began walking again, far more slowly this time. “Were… were they happy? In the end?”

“I believe they were,” said Aziraphale earnestly.

Except, perhaps, for the years after Adam died before Eve did. She’d been rather blue.

“Mm.”

Aziraphale was silent for a moment, watching the sun set behind the hills. “You know, there are a few others who didn’t believe Enos.”

“Really?” asked Seth.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “Young man named Enoch. Though he’s gone now. God took him up to Heaven a bit early. His descendants, though, they’re around. I believe their leader at the moment goes by Methuselah?”

“I see,” said Seth. “You’ll have to introduce us some time. Was Enoch one of Seth’s tribe?”

“Yes. If I remember correctly, he was your… great-great-great grandson.”

“Oh,” said Seth. “You know, my other children and grandchildren have begun aging as Azura’s people did?”

Aziraphale held back a gasp. “I’m so sorry to hear it,” he said earnestly.

“We’ve grown used to it. Azura cries often.”

“That’s terrible,” he said.

“Mm.” 

They drew close to what seemed to be a modest brick house, built relatively recently. Seth gestured to the door. “This is where I live. Come in.”


	65. 3367 BC - Mohenjo-daro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for referenced violence and description of injuries.

_3367 BC. Mohenjo-daro, Sindh, Pakistan._

Crawly hurt. Their ribs hurt. Their arm hurt. Their face hurt. And they were reasonably certain they’d sprained their ankle. Human bodies were way too fragile. 

They rolled onto their back, groaning. They’d been attacked from behind, and hadn’t been able to think clearly enough to scare them off. Seeing their eyes had only riled the humans up more. 

Dust from the ground was sticking to their face. That was probably bad, but they were in too much pain to care. Or do anything about it.

Six hundred years wasn’t too bad, as bodies went. A very long time indeed, for a human.

Beelzebub and the Body Department Demons would be absolutely pissed, but Crawly could deal with that when they weren’t focused on breathing.

They could hear people walking around outside the alley they’d been dumped in. Humans. Brilliant things. One second they were giving food to children out of the goodness of their strange hearts, the next they were beating up unsuspecting Demons with no obvious motive. 

What would Dagon think if they reported this as a successful temptation? Probably laugh in their face. And not count it. Especially if it technically ought to.

“Oh, no,” A voice said. “What is that?”

Crawly groaned in offence.

“Gods—they’re alive,” said a second voice. 

Footsteps sounded and someone kicked more dust into their face before crouching. A hand checked to see if they were breathing. 

“Can you hear us?” the second voice said. “We got you. You’re going to be just fine. I’m a doctor.”

“Can ’ear,” Crawly managed. Their lips were swollen and they were reasonably sure they’d lost a tooth. Their mouth tasted like blood.

“Good,” the human said. “We’re going to take care of you.” Their voice changed, comforting to businesslike. “We need to get them somewhere safe. Back home. You go… get Arunachalam. He and I will be able to carry them back. And wet cloth. I need to clean their wounds.”

Crawly could hear someone run away. The human kept speaking to them quietly, calmly, as they drifted in and out of full consciousness. 

Maybe they wouldn’t be discorporated after all.

It was funny—in another situation, they’d be encouraging the human not to help the hapless person who’d gone and gotten beat up. But in this circumstance, the Demonic thing was to accept the help.

It was selfish, plain and simple. Let humans help them, then turn around and tempt more as soon as they were well. Properly Demonic of them. 

Finally, the other human returned, along with a round, burly man, who lifted Crawly up and carried them to a large, cool house where they were laid down. The human who’d stayed with them in the alley cleaned their wounds, bandaged their ribs, and splinted their ankle. 

They dozed off eventually, and when they woke, it was dark outside. 

A middle-aged man sat in a chair by the bed Crawly was in, chin tucked into his chest, snoring quietly. 

Crawly tried to sit up, found their ribs rather didn’t like that, so laid back down with a groan. 

The man in the chair started and looked over at them. “Oh, you’re awake.”

“Yeah,” said Crawly.

“How are you feeling?”

“Bad.”

“Understandable. You seem to have gotten yourself into a bit of a scrap. I’m Raghavan. This is my house.” He stood up and went over to the bed where Crawly was.

They closed their eyes. One of them didn’t like being open. Maybe it was swollen. It was probably swollen. And they didn’t fancy being thrown out for their eyes. 

“What’s your name?” Raghavan asked. “Do you have anyone we should contact? Family? Husband?”

“Crawly,” they said. “And no, haven’t got anyone.”

They were definitely missing a tooth. They’d have to miracle it back once they were away from these humans.

“I see,” said Raghavan tactfully. “Well, in that case, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need to get back on your feet.”

Crawly almost sat up and blinked at him to demonstrate why he definitely wouldn’t let Crawly stay, but didn’t for obvious reasons.

(* Literally, _Demon_ strate.)


	66. 3360 BC - Mohenjo-daro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied/referenced torture.

_3360 BC. Mohenjo-daro, Sindh, Pakistan._

Crawly trudged along the bank of the river. They’d finished their requisite daily temptation, and were taking a break before returning to Raghavan’s house. 

They’d been staying with Raghavan’s family since they were attacked seven years earlier. It was easier than keeping up their own house, after all.

Though it did mean they were still missing a tooth. Couldn’t very well have it reappear. Humans might notice that. 

They sat on a tree stump, looking out over the river. They could see crops on the opposite bank, but it was dark* out, so the humans weren’t around. 

(* Crawly had only worked out that humans couldn’t see in the dark two years earlier. Until then, they’d assumed humans were just stubborn and superstitious. The revelation had resulted in a month spent deliberately interacting with humans in late evening, trying to work out when, exactly, they stopped being able to see.)

They had one problem, though. See, Crawly was enjoying living with the humans. They were hilarious, for one thing. They vacillated between being exceptionally kind and downright vindictive. It was fascinating. 

The problem was, Crawly was almost certain that living peacefully with humans was frowned upon by Hellish authorities. Rather frowned upon. On-pain-of-pain frowned upon. Living with humans in order to tempt them, on the other hand, was more ambiguous. 

So if Crawly would just tempt one of them, it’d give them a proper excuse. A _real_ temptation, specifically. Not one of their casual, make-this-one-bad-decision temptations. No, it would have to be the proper, long-game dragging their soul down to Hell sort that starts out with petty little things and ends with properly damning stuff.

But, if Crawly was absolutely, totally honest… they didn’t _want_ to do that. They just didn’t. Made their insides feel odd. And that was a problem. A critical failure in a Demon.

And if Hell actually checked up on them, that would be the end of it. But these last few centuries, they’d stopped sending someone up to fetch them. They’d worked out a trick where Crawly just spontaneously knew they were expected in Hell, which was uncomfortable to say the least, but it did mean that they didn’t have a random Demon pop up in the middle of whatever they were doing and drag them down. 

So, considering that Hell wasn’t particularly likely to show up, Crawly was left in a difficult position. Because the bad thing to do was obviously to stay and take advantage of the humans’ altruism by tempting them to damnation. And the _good_ thing—not that they’d ever consider actually doing the good thing—was to leave and not taint them at all with their Demonic presence. 

But the thing they wanted to do was to stay and not tempt them. Which was… more ambiguous than the good thing. It was the selfish thing, which was bad, which was good for Crawly. But it wasn’t the evil thing, either. 

If Hell found out, it would not be pleasant for Crawly. Not in the slightest. It would hurt like Hell, literally. But if Hell didn’t work it out—which seemed entirely possible—it would be… not nice, of course. Pleasant. 

And really, it was the selfish thing, and being selfish was properly Demonic, as far as Crawly was concerned. Hell might not agree, but so what? Hell rarely agreed with itself. 

Crawly slid off the stump and began making their way back to Raghavan’s house. Selfish it was. 


	67. 3354 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to minor character death.

_3354 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia._

Aziraphale returned to his house in Ur, closed the door, and sat down heavily. He was sandy from standing outside for Seth’s burial, but he didn’t particularly care. 

He’d spoken with Gabriel about returning to Heaven, but apparently none of the other Angels were willing to take his post. He was understanding, of course. It was taking far too long for him to adjust to living with humans, so it simply wouldn’t be fair to force another Angel to go through the same process. 

Particularly considering that, as Angels went, Aziraphale was an excellent candidate for a potentially unpleasant task. After all, he’d given away his sword, which was, well… not necessarily the ideal course of action for him to have taken, it would seem.

After all, Gabriel seemed to assume he still had it. And he did know where it was! But it seemed improper to take it from the grave. 

It didn’t help that he didn’t much fancy going back if he could help it. He was beginning to have unfortunate associations with that particular cave. 

He stood and went to prepare some food. He’d recently learned to make barley porridge and found it wonderful for occupying himself when he was in need of something to do. And though he couldn’t eat it himself, he could hand it out to humans in need.

That was the lovely thing about this post. He could see for himself how much happiness Heaven could bring humans. He could watch their faces light up with hope, or their shoulders drop as they relaxed. 

Couldn’t see that in Heaven. When he’d last been up there regularly, after Adam and Eve ate the fruit, before he joined them on Earth for good, they hadn’t had contact with the humans. Aziraphale was, essentially, their contact with humans. 

And it was a privilege, really, to interact so much with God’s favoured creations. He’d begun spending more time with them since Eve died, and it was truly fascinating to see the variety. To hear their hopes and aspirations.

The vividness with which they lived, and the pleasure they took in the world was truly wonderful. Why, just two days earlier, he’d purchased a sweet made of dates and nuts for a kind young lad who’d been down on his luck. The boy’s enjoyment of the sweet had seemed so pure and profound… it really showed Her grace, providing them with a world so rich in things for them to enjoy. 

If Aziraphale was a tad disappointed he couldn’t try them for himself, well… one couldn’t fault an Angel for wishing he could experience all the wonders of God’s creation, could they?

He finished the bowl of porridge and carried it to the door. It was of no consequence that the humans who understood his situation were gone. Aziraphale was an Angel, and he enjoyed his job. He brought humans hope, and faith, and joy. 

Everything was just tickety-boo. 


	68. 3335 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

_3335 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_. 

Aziraphale strolled along the beach. “You realize your parents care for you very much,” he said. 

Noah, who was thirteen, shrugged. “I know. But they just don’t _get_ it!”

“Would you like to elaborate on that?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Ugh. You’re just like all the other adults.” Noah kicked a rock toward the waves. 

“Really?” asked Aziraphale. “And how is that?”

“You keep asking questions ’cause you want me to say something specific,” said Noah. “Like you did just now.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I’m afraid I’m not sure I can rid myself of the habit in time for it to benefit this conversation.”

“How come?”

“I’m very old, frankly,” said Aziraphale. “It’s difficult to change things.”

Noah raised an eyebrow. “You don’t look that old. ’Cept that you have white hair.”

“Of course, dear,” said Aziraphale. He glanced up the beach and pointed out a spot. “Would you like to pause for a moment?”

“Sure,” said Noah. “Why’d my parents ask you to talk to me, anyway?”

“I’m not sure,” said Aziraphale. “Though I imagine it has to do with the fact that I convinced Lameh to see his parents’ perspective once a long time ago.”

“Lameh… my dad?” Noah asked. 

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. 

“Woah. And you were an adult already?”

“Oh, very much so,” said Aziraphale. 

“You really are old.”

“I did tell you so.”

Noah stuck his tongue out at him. 

They walked in silence until they reached the spot they’d intended to stop and sat down, both facing the sea. 

Aziraphale still hadn’t gotten over how beautiful the sea was. 

“I do feel bad about it,” Noah said quietly. “I know—I know I shouldn’t have left them behind like that. But… I don’t want them to know that I know that.”

“Why ever not?” asked Aziraphale. 

“It’s just—if they know I feel bad, they’ll get all… soft and emotional. And then I’ll feel even worse than I already do. And we’ll all know that I did a bad thing and that I know I did the bad thing, instead of just me knowing I did a bad thing and know it.”

“That’s a difficult position.”

“Yeah,” said Noah, turning to lean against Aziraphale. “And… it’s hard ’cause I think… well, I didn’t want to hurt them, of course. But it’s hard. I have a lot of jobs they expect me to do and I just don’t want to disappoint them. I thought it’d be easier to just… not be there to disappoint them.”

Aziraphale nodded thoughtfully. “It sounds like you’ve worked that out, though, haven’t you?”

“What d’you mean?” asked Noah.

“I mean, you tried to run away from your problems, and now you have a bigger problem. I think you’ve learned, at the very least, what not to do.”

“I guess so,” said Noah. “But I don’t know what _to_ do, and that’s the hard part.”

“What do you think you should do?”

“You mean ethically?” asked Noah.

“I’m afraid so.”

Noah laughed for a moment, then went quiet and sombre. “I s’pose I have to apologize. Properly.” 

Aziraphale hummed in response. 

“And not do it again,” he said. “And tell them why I did it.”

“It seems to me as though you know exactly what to do.”

Noah groaned and pulled away, flopping down on the sand. “I was worried you’d say that. You’re such a grown-up.”

“The worst of them all, I’m afraid,” said Aziraphale. 

“Ugh. Fine, I’ll _apologize_.”

“That sounds like an excellent plan, my dear.” Aziraphale paused. “Now, what would you say to finding some dates for the walk back?”

Noah popped up again, grinning. “Dates?”

“Oh yes.” Aziraphale stood, dusting off his clothes, then extended a hand. “Come along, then.”


	69. 3330 BC - Mohenjo-daro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied/referenced torture.

_3330 BC. Mohenjo-daro, Sindh, Pakistan_. 

Crawly settled into their customary chair in the main room of Raghavan’s family home, sighing. They’d just finished a particularly satisfying temptation, convincing a farmer to sabotage his neighbor’s crops. 

They closed their eyes, basking in the warmth of the fire. Before too long, the door opened and they heard Raghavan come in. He was rather older than he’d been when Crawly met him, hair shot through with grey now. 

“Crawly,” said Raghavan, the chair opposite them creaking. “How are you?”

“Well,” said Crawly. “You?”

“I’m afraid I seem to be growing old,” said Raghavan. “I have more difficulty these days paying house calls.” He paused. “Crawly, would you mind if I asked you a few questions? There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you about for a few years now.”

They opened their eyes and returned to a semi-normal position, looking at Raghavan. “What’s that?”

Raghavan looking into a cup, expression conflicted. That wasn’t good. Er. Bad. Whatever. Crawly didn’t want that expression on his face. 

“You’ve been here a long time now,” began Raghavan. “Some forty years now, I believe. And… well, we’ve noticed that you’re not exactly… aging.”

“Right,” said Crawly. “Runs in my family. My father didn’t go grey until he was—”

“I’m a doctor, Crawly,” snapped Raghavan. “That doesn’t cut it.”

“Shit,” they said. 

“None of that now,” said Raghavan. “I’ve been thinking about it for some time now. You look the same as you always have, and you have the eyes of a serpent. There isn’t a polite way to say this, but, Crawly… you’re not human, are you?”

Crawly growled, sinking lower in their chair. They’d hoped to somehow avoid this conversation. Couldn’t the humans just accept that they weren’t human? No, apparently it had to be a whole thing. Bless it. Now they had to deal with it, too. 

“No,” they said finally. “Not human.”

“See, that wasn’t terribly difficult, was it?” Raghavan asked.

Crawly pointed a finger at him. “You, hush.”

Raghavan chuckled. “You are a stubborn one.”

“Is that all, then?” Crawly asked. 

“Not quite,” said Raghavan. “What are you, if you’re not human?”

“Demon. I’m a Demon.”

“And what does that mean?”

Crawly sighed. “I’m visiting from another world. Hell, ’s called. I’m supposed to tempt you lot into general… evil and depravity.”

Raghavan choked on whatever it was he was drinking and started coughing. 

Crawly snapped their fingers and stopped that. 

Raghavan blinked at them, clearly less at ease than he’d been before. Well, served him right questioning Crawly like that. Talk about impolite. 

“So, you’re tempting my family into… evil?” he asked. 

“Nah,” said Crawly. “Decided I didn’t feel like it. No, I tempt people when I leave the house. No one your family interacts with. Just… people.”

“How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

Crawly rolled his eyes. “Listen. Human. Raghavan. If I wanted to tempt you, you wouldn’t know. You really wouldn’t. And if I wanted to hurt you… well, you’d _definitely_ know. As far as you should be concerned, I’m just the same being that’s been living in your house for forty years.”

Raghavan tilted his head, considering. “So, you’re telling me I should believe that your job is to make humans miserable and also trust you to not make me and my family miserable?”

“I mean. Technically, you shouldn’t trust me at all. I’m a Demon. Generally speaking, we’re untrustworthy all around.” 

So what if Crawly was telling the truth here? That didn’t make them trustworthy. 

Raghavan had the audacity to laugh. “All right, Crawly, I believe you.”

“Terrible idea.”

He laughed harder. “I see how it is.” His laughter tapered off, and he straightened up, looking at Crawly seriously again. “Can I tell the family?”

“Sure,” said Crawly. “I’d prefer it to not reach the general population of the town… but the family’s fine, if you want.”

“I think many of them have an idea of it, as it is,” said Raghavan. “Thank you for telling me, Crawly.”

“Ssshut up.”


	70. 3318 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

_3318 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_. 

Aziraphale walked into the party. He’d been assigned to do more blessings, and found that parties and similar celebrations were quite well-suited to finding people in need of some assistance. Not quite as well-suited to it as walking around the outskirts of the city at night, but well-suited nonetheless. And rather more pleasant at that. 

It was mainly a matter of how acceptable it was to speak with strangers. Or it was in the case of parties. Walking about the outskirts of the city, it was generally somewhat obvious what people were in need of without speaking with them. 

He’d been invited to this particular party by a young man he’d been coaxing out of a destructive lifestyle for some time now. The man in question was not attending, at Aziraphale’s recommendation. They’d both agreed that it would likely hinder his progress.

Aziraphale made his way to a seating area some way inside the building and sat. People seemed to still be arriving, so he took a moment to relax and get his bearings before scanning the party for likely candidates. 

There were more than a few possibilities—people with dark circles under their eyes, or who seemed to put off the people to whom they spoke. 

One of the more tired-looking people flopped into a seat opposite Aziraphale. They looked and smelled as though they’d been drinking alcohol. Oh dear. At least they didn’t seem to have left their senses totally behind just yet.

“Hey,” said the human. “’S up with your hair?”

“I’ve gone grey a bit early is all,” said Aziraphale curtly.

“’S not grey,” pointed out the human. “’S white. Hair doesn’t go white early.”

“Mine did.”

“Couldn’t’ve.”

“It obviously did,” said Aziraphale. “How else do you suppose my hair could be white?”

“Oh,” said the human. “Good point.”

“Thank you.”

The human was silent for a while, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. 

Aziraphale sighed and settled farther into his chair. Might as well work out what it was this human needed. Unless they walked away. Then he would have to find another human. Aziraphale wasn’t especially fond of talking to drunk humans, as these increasingly seemed to be. 

“You want something to eat?” the human asked. 

“No, thank you.”

“Gonna find something. Be back. Um. Was’r name?”

“Aziraphale,” said Aziraphale. 

“Ajir-fell? Azzzerfull. Fale-asir.”

“Asir-fell is just fine,” he said tiredly. He’d found that humans, particularly tired ones or ones in altered states of consciousness, found it difficult to pronounce his name. 

“Asir-fell,” repeated the human, then gave him a lopsided smile. “Be back with food.”

They swayed away, and returned shortly with two portions of food. Aziraphale could identify dates, honeyed meat, and barley cakes at a glance, and it smelled wonderful. 

The human handed him a portion before he could refuse it and threw themself back into their seat, biting into one of the barley cakes happily. 

Aziraphale held his portion at arms’ length. “Thank you. How might I address you?”

“Erra-gasir,” they said, tossing a date in the air and catching it in their mouth. 

“What’s troubling you?” he asked.

“Nothing’s troubling me,” said Erra-gasir. “Why’rn’t you eating?”

Aziraphale sighed and set the platter aside. “I’m not hungry,” he said. “What’s on your mind?” 

He tried to imbue his words with as much divine comfort as possible, though he knew it did very little for the inhabitants of Ur.

“’M a musician,” he said. 

“Really?” asked Aziraphale. 

“Yeah. I wanna play flute at the temple to Anu,” he explained. “But the priests don’ think I’m good enough.”

“Oh, that’s easily remedied,” said Aziraphale confidently. “Why don’t you practice once you’ve sobered up and give it another try?” 

“You’re great, Asir-fell, y’know? Just. Yep.”

“Thank you dear,” said Aziraphale. He stood, carrying his food over to Erra-gasir, and adding it to their portion. “There you are. Good luck with your position at the temple.”


	71. 3308 BC - Mohenjo-daro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to minor character death.

_3308 BC. Mohenjo-daro, Sindh, Pakistan_. 

Crawly looked up from their sewing—they were mending a bag for Malathi, Raghavan’s daughter-in-law who’d moved in with her husband decades ago. 

Raghavan passed away twelve years earlier, but Crawly stuck around. They got along reasonably well with the family, and it seemed silly to go out of their way to find someplace else to stay. 

Jayaraj and Thangadurai, who were both very new humans, stood in front of Crawly. They weren’t totally sure how exactly the new humans fit into the family, but they had taken a shine to Crawly, who hadn’t yet bothered to dissuade them. 

Building up trust made for a worse betrayal, or so they told themself. 

“Crawly,” said Thangadurai, who was slightly older and better at putting words together coherently, “can you do tricks for us again?”

“Tricks!” agreed Jayaraj. 

Crawly put their sewing aside, giving the children their attention. Children were unique in Crawly’s experience in that they often didn’t even react to their eyes. “What sort of tricks?” they asked. 

“Funny ones,” said Thangadurai. 

“Hmm,” said Crawly, pretending to consider, then leaning forward. They held out a hand. “How’s this?” They snapped their fingers, summoning Jayaraj’s wood water buffalo toy from another part of the house.

Jayaraj made a delighted gurgling noise and grabbed the toy. “Thank you!”

Crawly resisted the urge to tell him not to thank them. Unfortunately, they’d received a very convincing lecture many years ago, shortly after moving in with the family, that they were not allowed to discourage children from being polite. 

Thangadurai’s eyes had gone very large. “Can you do that again?” He asked.

“Oh, sure,” said Crawly, summoning Thangadurai’s favourite cup. 

The boy blinked, and took the mug from their fingers, then looked inside. “There’s nothing in it,” he said disappointedly. 

“Really?” Crawly snapped their fingers. “Check again.”

Thangadurai gasped, then drank from the mug. 

One interesting thing Crawly had learned after moving to the area was that the humans actually consumed the milk of other animals. It was quite strange, in their opinion, but seemed to be the done thing around here. 

They settled back into their chair. “Want to see something else?” they asked. 

The boys nodded emphatically, and Crawly grinned. 

“All right.” They licked their finger, conjured a tablet with the other hand, and drew a flaming ox on it. 

Jayaraj’s jaw fell open. “Wow,” he said. 

Crawly waved a hand, and the fire vanished, replaced by scored marks. They held the tablet out to the kids. “There y’are.”

Jayaraj grabbed it, and Thangadurai’s face screwed up in annoyance. “I wanted that,” he said, clutching his mug. 

Crawly sat back and returned to their sewing as the boys argued over the tablet. They liked children. 


	72. 3299 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for illness.

_3299 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia._

Aziraphale didn’t like this. It felt… well, just wrong. He hadn’t visited Enos in years. Hundreds of them, now. They’d parted on bad terms… though he hadn’t exactly been an active participant in the discussion. 

It would seem the poor boy was dying, though, and Aziraphale was an Angel. He couldn’t very well refuse a man his dying wish, now could he? Enos could be prepared to ask for forgiveness, and he’d be a very bad Angel indeed to refuse him that.

He stood in the courtyard of Enos’s house, which was now surprisingly close to the centre of the city, simply by virtue of the city’s growth in intervening years.

Small children played in the coutyard, flashing bright smiles, hair in neat locks that flared when they spun around. They’d kept the style, it seemed, from Azura’s tribe. One of the few things they hadn’t left behind in exchange for the latest in Ur. All these children were descendants of Adam and Eve. 

The only descendants of their age, it would seem. Except for Enoch’s family, the dears they were. Much of Seth and Azura’s branch of the tribe had joined Enos’s family when they arrived in Ur. And those who were left of Seth’s family were getting old now.

“Aziraphale?” asked an adult voice. 

Aziraphale started and turned to see a young person he didn’t recognize watching him with what he hoped wasn’t mild disdain. 

“That’s me,” he said. “Enos sent for me?”

“I know. You look exactly how he described you.” They sounded surprised.

“I’m glad to hear his tact with words hadn’t diminished,” said Aziraphale. 

The human regarded him with—oh dear—what was probably disdain. “Sure. Well, come in then.” They stood aside, gesturing for him to enter the house.

It had been redone since Aziraphale was there last, and smelled like incense. They passed other people in the halls— other descendants of Adam and Eve he would most likely never meet. 

Finally, the human led them into a large room toward what had to be the back of the house. It was dark, lit by lamps, and smelled strongly of incense, likely in use to cover up the equally strong scent of humans. A small shrine to the god Nanna occupied one corner.

Breathing was totally unnecessary, anyway. And it wasn’t as if the humans were likely to notice in lighting this dim.

“Aziraphale,” said a voice from what appeared through the sweet-scented smoke to be a rather large bed. “Come closer.”

The younger human took the words as their cue to leave and swept out, leaving Aziraphale to move closer to the bed where Enos lay. 

Enos was very, very old now. Disturbing, just how old he was when Aziraphale so clearly remembered him as a baby who tried to eat a flower. His curls were completely grey and missing from the trop of his head, and his face was wrinkled and worn. 

“Aziraphale,” Enos repeated softly. “How is it you’ve aged so little?”

“The grace of God,” said Aziraphale, truthfully. 

Enos laughed, the sound grating and disconcertingly hearty, coming from a man confined to his bed. “You just don’t change, do you?” he asked once he’d finished.

“Not terribly much, no,” said Aziraphale. 

“I see. What convinced you to come?”

“Your messenger,” said Aziraphale. 

Enos rolled his eyes. “I mean why did you listen to my messenger? I can’t imagine you think very highly of me.”

“It is my duty to offer forgiveness to everyone,” said Aziraphale. “Including you, in case that wasn’t clear.”

“Forgiveness… from your God?” asked Enos.

“Insofar as I can hope to know Her will, yes. Predominantly my own, though.”

“I see.” Enos chuckled. “I don’t want it.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I don’t want it,” said Enos. 

“Why exactly did you invite me here in the first place?”

“Curiosity. Not to mention, you’re all that’s left of my grandparents.” Enos sighed. “Did they… think of me? Before they died?”

Aziraphale blinked. Strange choice, asking for the company of an Angel only to ask after two humans, albeit exemplary ones.

“Well,” said Aziraphale slowly, “I can’t claim to remember. I am sure, however, that they did, well… they did love you. Though you didn’t agree on things.”

Enos exhaled, closing his eyes. He was silent for a time, then said, “thank you, Aziraphale.”

“You’re most welcome,” said Aziraphale. “And… for whatever it might be worth, I forgive you as well.”

“I told you, I don’t want your forgiveness,” said Enos. “Leave me.”

Aziraphale frowned, but left Enos alone to his room of incense and idolatry. 


	73. 3288 BC - Mohenjo-daro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for referenced murder, mentions of blood, and illness.

_3288 BC. Mohenjo-daro, Sindh, Pakistan_. 

Crawly felt sick. Their skin was flecked with spots of blood, and their ears rang with a dying man’s last pleas for help. Sometimes, their job _sucked_.

And really, so what if they hadn’t helped? So what if they popped back to hold the poor bloke’s hand as he bled out? So what if they brought the body back to his family? None of that would show up on their report, and none of it made them feel any less like vomiting and hiding somewhere in the wilderness for as long as Demonically possible. 

Instead of doing any of that, they made it back to Raghavan’s family house and collapsed in a seat in front of the fire, trying to get their breath under control again. Thank Satan for friendly humans.

Or, not Satan. That was almost certainly not Satan. 

Whatever.

At least they had another three souls down on the ‘murderer’ roll call when Dagon asked. 

They closed their eyes. They had to stop thinking about it. 

Footsteps sounded at the entrance to the room, but they couldn’t quite bring themself to care.

That is, until somebody screamed. 

They opened their eyes and launched themself to their feet. Jayaraj stood in the doorway, pointing at them. They could hear footsteps in other parts of the house, probably coming to see what the matter was. 

Talk about a failure of a Demon. They hadn’t even bothered to _get the fucking blood off_. 

Crawly held up their hands in surrender. “Look, I really can explain—”

“You’re covered in blood,” Jayaraj said, voice strained. “You’re covered in blood, Crawly.”

“I know that,” they said. “It’s not the sort of thing you overlook.”

“Where did it come from?” Jayaraj asked. “It’s not yours.”

“No,” said Crawly. It might’ve been a statement and not a question but they weren’t exactly thinking clearly.

Thangadurai came up behind his cousin, wearing a sleeping tunic. “What’s going on? Crawly? Oh, gods and goddesses. I’m sure Crawly can explain. Can’t they. Can’t you?”

“I can,” they said. Though they weren’t totally sure, now that they’d had some time, whether ‘I was tempting someone to jealousy and didn’t expect them to go as far as murder but wasn’t technically allowed to stop them once they took it that far’ was an acceptable excuse in the eyes of most humans. 

Most of the family had assembled, though the children were all sent away. They crowded Crawly in, sitting and standing around the fire, where they sat, still bloody and still feeling ill. 

The family argued amongst themselves, no one sparing Crawly a glance except to follow it up with an expression of disgust or a righteous exclamation. 

Served them right, thinking they could live with humans. They were a Demon, for Hell’s sake. Who did they think they—

“Crawly,” said Thangadurai, voice controlled. “Where is all this blood from?”

“I was doing a temptation,” they said slowly. The family knew they did temptations. Had done for decades now. “And er… it got out of control. Went further than I intended. Much too far.” 

What were they saying? If Beelzebub heard what they were saying, they’d really be in for it. 

“I couldn’t leave,” they said. “I went back when it was done… held his hand.” Their voice broke at the end and they cursed it. Bodies. So fickle. 

Thangadurai took a deep breath. “So you’re saying… the person you were tempting killed someone, and you didn’t do anything?”

“I couldn’t,” they said. “Not really. I did what I could. His family has him now. He’ll be properly… cared for.”

Jayaraj’s lip quivered.

Thangadurai ran a hand over his face and sighed. “Okay. Now go. Clean up.”

Crawly went to their room and snapped their fingers, getting the worst of the blood off. It had dried under their fingernails though, and try as they might, they couldn’t imagine it away well enough to miracle it out. 

Then they conjured fresh clothes and sat. Their room was small—just a seat and a small plant. Didn’t need anything else, and these humans knew what Crawly was, so they didn’t give them anything else.

The sick feeling was beginning to go away, slowly. They closed their eyes and didn’t cry. 

After what felt like a very long time indeed, one of the older aunts appeared and led them back to the main room, where the humans were silent. 

Their faces were stony, most tear stained, a few disgusted or angry, and one or two sympathetic. None of them had weapons, though, which was good news for Crawly.

Bad news?

Who cared. 

Thangadurai was the one who spoke. “Crawly.”

“Yes?”

“We’ve decided to let you stay.”

“What?”

“You can stay,” said Thangadurai. “It’s clear you didn’t mean for it to happen. It’s your nature, and you can’t change that. And you’re our family.”

Crawly gave a disbelieving laugh. “You—you mean it?”

Thangadurai stood and came up to Crawly, resting one hand on their shoulder. “You can stay.”

Crawly didn’t cry. 


	74. 3278 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

_3278 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia._

Aziraphale strolled around the market in Ur, buying provisions he’d later distribute to humans in need. Though he hadn’t, strictly speaking, been instructed to do this, he’d picked up the habit some time ago and found it soothing. 

He perused the various stalls selling fish. Since his favourite vendors closed up shop from fifty years ago now, he’d had difficulty finding quality seafood. It was quite irritating, though he knew it was coming when he elected not to persuade the latest generation of the family to keep up the business. 

Eventually, he found one shop selling some sort of shellfish he hadn’t seen before, which he gathered up, paid for, and collected in a pot he’d brought for the purpose. Then he moved on to the stalls offering grain-based foodstuffs.

He’d just selected a particularly lovely-looking millet cake and requested a dozen of them when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned.

“Aziraphale,” said a middle-aged woman he’d guided at length a few months back. 

Elmesum? Seemed a likely guess. He’d met far too many people named Elemsum over time. He led this particular woman to give up a lucrative position in the government to make pottery for families in need. Last he heard, it all worked out splendidly, as she enjoyed making pottery and there was rather a shortage of it the past few years. 

“Ah, yes, hello,” he said, smiling as he put the cakes in his bag. “It’s lovely to see you. How is the pottery?”

“Wonderful,” she said with a smile. “I’m happier than I’ve ever been. Thank you.”

“Oh, you already knew what you wanted to do when we met. I just… nudged a bit.”

“All the same. Though that’s not what I’m here to tell you about. See, I’ve been looking for you. You didn’t leave me an address!”

“I didn’t, did I? Silly me.”

He never left an address if he could help it. The humans always seemed to think he’d want to talk to them again, which wasn’t so bad all on its own… it just became rather unpleasant sixty-odd years down the line when the humans died. Much easier to never see them again and assume they were happy somewhere even when, logically, they rather weren’t. 

“You didn’t,” Elmesum agreed. “And I was wondering, since you were such a big help to me, if you’d like to come to meet my niece?”

“Your… niece. Oh, yes!” He had a vague recollection of Elmesum’s sister having been pregnant. “She’s been born, then, I take it?”

“Last week, yes,” said Elmesum. “She and my sister are happy and well.”

“Excellent,” said Aziraphale. “Though… why would you want me to see them?”

“Well, if you don’t want to, you don’t have to,” said Elmesum affrontedly.

Oh, bother. He’d been quite rude there, hadn’t he? “My apologies—I’m in something of a tizzy with some… things. I meant to say, while your niece sounds absolutely lovely and I’m honored that you’re thinking of me, I’m not sure that I’d be of much help to a baby.”

“I see.” She still sounded skeptical. “Well, you should come anyway. I’d like for you to meet her.”

“That sounds wonderful,” he said this time. He could handle a baby for a few hours. He was an Angel. And blessing a baby couldn’t exactly hurt his reports. “When were you thinking?”

“When are you free?” 

If he didn’t go now, he’d likely have to give her his address, and he rather didn’t want to do that. “I suppose I could be right now, if you like.”

“Really?” she asked, looking from him to his jar of shellfish and the bag of barley cakes and fruit he had slung over one shoulder. 

“Absolutely. I always say, you’ve got to, er, walk your shellfish before eating them.”

“You’ve… okay, then. It’s just this way.” 

Aziraphale followed her. 


	75. 3268 BC - Mohenjo-daro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for murder, injury, and minor character death.

_3268 BC. Mohenjo-daro, Sindh, Pakistan._

Crawly stumbled into the house. They’d been out doing a minor temptation not far off when they heard shouts from this area and ran home.

Here, there were signs of a struggle not far outside their house and blood in the doorway. Inside, Kanagaratnam, one of Jayaraj’s younger sons, sat in front of the fireplace, looking stricken.

“What’s going on?” Crawly asked urgently. “What’s happened? Who’s hurt?”

“It’s Thangadurai,” he said, voice tearful. “Someone stabbed him. I think he’s dying.”

“No.” Thangadurai. “Where is he?”

Kanagaratnam pointed in the direction of Thangadurai’s room, and Crawly ran.

Inside Thangadurai’s room, it smelled like blood and scared humans. They were gathered around the bed, and he could hear ragged breathing.

Crawly pushed through the humans. If Thangadurai wasn’t strictly _dying_ yet, they might be able to do something. They could spin that. Healing humans was a no-no, obviously, but maybe—

Thangadurai lay on his bed, eyes closed, his brother holding a wad of fabric to what had to be a wound, judging by the blood. His wife held his hand, whispering to him. 

Crawly swallowed hard. He was dying. They could feel it in the air. They weren’t prepared for this. Thangadurai was closer to them than any of the other humans. 

“Can you do anything?” Jayaraj asked from behind them, voice harsh.

Shouldn’t, probably. Fuck that, though. 

They laid a hand on Thangadurai’s shoulder and exhaled slowly. 

Thangadurai inhaled.

Crawly opened their eyes, vision swimming, and stumbled back. They _really_ weren’t supposed to do that. 

Thangadurai’s eyes were open, and he was speaking to his wife. Crawly couldn’t process the words, though. 

“Crawly,” said Thangadurai softly,

They looked at him. He was still dying, that much was clear. Crawly had just cleared things up for a bit. Let him say good-bye. 

“Crawly,” he repeated.

“Yeah,” they said. 

“How long do I have?” he asked.

“Twenty minutes,” they said. “Can’t do any longer. ’M sorry.”

“Twenty minutes,” he said softly. “Right. Thank you.”

They stood back against the wall while the humans said their good-bye’s. Twenty minutes might’ve been an optimistic estimate, but Crawly would be blessed if they didn’t make it happen anyway. 

Thangadurai spoke to his uncles and aunts. Quiet words, and confessions, and prayers. Crawly’s skin prickled at the strange, not-quite-the-same holiness. And they stayed, making sure Thangadurai could say everything he wanted to without feeling the pain he should have been feeling right now. 

Then he spoke to his cousins. Jayaraj went last, breaking into sobs at the end. Thangadurai was able to hold his hand and comfort him without shaking from the effort.

Then he spoke to his nieces and nephews. Someone got another blanket so his wound wasn’t visible and the younger ones could see him without worrying. Thangadurai was nearly back to normal, then. 

Then his parents. Thangadurai started crying then, too.

Finally, his wife and children. They cried, and at the end the children were ushered out. Thangadurai looked to Crawly and nodded, then back to his wife.

And Crawly let him go. 


	76. 3263 BC - Mohenjo-daro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to adultery and themes of familial rejection.

_3263 BC. Mohenjo-daro, Sindh, Pakistan._

“Crawly,” said Jayaraj. “Welcome back.”

Crawly stepped into the main room slowly, glancing between the adults of the family. The past few years, they’d seemed less and less friendly. Now, they sat around the fire, watching Crawly. 

“What’s up?” they asked. 

“Come sit,” said Jayaraj again. “We need to talk to you. We’ve heard a few things about your _job_ that concern us.”

“Right,” they said, closing the door and moving toward the group. “Yeah. Makes sense you’d have some questions.”

They hadn’t been doing anything particularly terrible recently, as far as they could recall. Kicked off a few affairs, incited a brawl in the town square by accident, and several counts of petty theft. The last properly reprehensible thing they’d been involved with had been over a year ago. And, technically speaking, it was accidental. Not that anyone would know that if Crawly could help it. 

They settled into the chair Jayaraj indicated, trying to adopt as traditionally human a posture as possible. Made their spine a bit cross, but it was worth it when they wanted to allay humans’ fears. Granted, the fears were entirely justified, considering they were a Demon and all, but that wasn’t the point. 

“Crawly,” said Jayaraj again. “We’re concerned.”

“About my job. Yes, you said.” They winced. “Sorry. Rude. Demon. Erm. Tell me about these concerns?”

“Simply put…. you’re not a good person.”

“I’m not a person at all.”

“Crawly.”

“Sorry,” they found themself saying again. That’s what they got for spending so long with humans. Though not being a good not-person was good. Or desirable, at any rate.

“We’ve put up with your failures for long enough. You spend your days convincing people to steal, and cheat, and lie, and hurt other people, and we won’t have it. Not anymore.”

Crawly opened their mouth to argue, but found an argument rather difficult to formulate. “I, er— ngh. Not _you_ lot, though.”

Not often, anyway. Once. Once didn’t count, did it? 

And that weaver really deserved it, anyway.

“It’s not that we think you’re tempting us. It’s that your job—your whole thing—is to convince other people to do evil. We can’t have that in our house anymore. We’ve decided. You have to leave.”

Crawly’s throat felt tight. “I—no. He said we were family,” they whispered.

“You mean Thangadurai,” said Jayaraj. “He’s dead, Crawly. In case you didn’t notice.” His voice was tainted with venom. 

Crawly wasn’t breathing anymore. Their eyes prickled. Blasted human body and its emotions. “He—he said.”

“Crawly. Collect your things and go.”

Served them right. Being a Demon. They did spend their life going around hurting people. Still. That didn’t make them feel any less like curling up somewhere for a decade or six. 

They stood slowly. “Right. Right. I’ll, er. I’ll do that.”

“Good,” said Jayaraj. 

Crawly flinched, and trudged to their room. 

It still had barely any furnishings. The plant. Probably should’ve died by now, really. They might as well leave it here. Propped up in the corner, though, was a clay tablet with a crude drawing of an ox on it. Thangadurai’s wife gave it to them after he died. 

They picked up the tablet and walked unsteadily back to the main room, where most of the adults had dispersed. Jayaraj was still there. 

He watched Crawly with open contempt. “Gathered your things? Good.”

“I’ll just—go, then?”

“That sounds about right, yeah.”

They swallowed. “Right. I—sorry.”

“I don’t think so,” said Jayaraj.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, folks.


	77. 3252 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

_3252 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia._

Aziraphale left the home of the family he’d just blessed and began walking toward one of the city squares. His blessings and miracles have been going splendidly these past few decades. Gabriel told him so at his last review. 

Though something told him he might not be quite so successful in the near future. A Demonic presence had entered the city a few months ago, and though he’d yet to encounter the fiend, such a confrontation seemed imminent, particularly considering how the presence seemed to be growing stronger.

He turned into the square, where humans bustled about, calling out various wares and foods, bickering and laughing. They were fascinating creatures, humans. Though he seldom spoke with one for more than a year or two these days, he was finding them increasingly pleasant en masse, so to speak.

Oh, dear. There they were. 

Sitting on the edge of the fountain in the centre of the square was the Demon Crawly. They looked rather different since he last saw them. A mite paler, perhaps. And their hair was more wavy than curled. They looked a bit more like the humans to the southeast than the locals. 

The oddest thing was, they didn’t appear to be doing anything. They weren’t speaking to the humans, or moving. Or blinking. Just staring into the middle distance, holding a clay tablet in their lap. 

They looked rather despondent, if Aziraphale was being completely frank. 

He ought to smite them, ought’n’t he? And he’d been in such good humour. A smiting would cause a bit of a scene.

He wove around the throngs of humans to approach the other side of the fountain. 

Crawly really wasn’t moving at all. In fact, there appeared to be a rather large damp spot at their back from splashing water. And there were—were those leaves on them? 

Exactly how long had they been sitting there?

Aziraphale had sensed their presence a few months ago. Had he been to this particular square since then? He couldn’t recall. Drat. 

A human nudged him. “Hey, mate. Quit ogling the statue.”

“Ogling the—I beg your pardon,” he said. 

The human sighed. “Sorry. You not from ’round here?”

“I tend to frequent the other side of the city,” he said stiffly.

“Right. Well, that’s been here a few months now. Not sure where it came from. My mates think the priests put it there as a shrine to Inanna. Or a joke.”

So Crawly had been sitting there for months. That would be concerning, if they weren’t a Demon. 

“I see. It’s excellent workmanship,” he said. None of the statues humans made came even close to that level of realism.

The human grinned as though they knew something Aziraphale did not. “‘Workmanship.’ Yeah, sure, you could say that.”

“I’m sorry?”

“All I’m saying is, the sculptor had a proper eye for beauty,” the human said. “Bet you wish—”

“That’s quite enough,” said Aziraphale sharply. “I merely think the realism is impressive. Certainly not—what I believe you’re implying.”

And that wasn’t even considering that the ‘statue’ was, in fact, a Demon! Oh, goodness, what if Crawly had overhead the conversation? 

He really ought to smite them. Sitting there, inspiring humans, to—to whatever that was. Thinking up vile things about an innocent statue. 

Bother, that was rather difficult to think of as evil. It had to be evil, though, since Crawly was doing it.

Seemed rude, smiting a Demon who hadn’t even moved in months. And a lot of effort, explaining to the humans why there was a smoking, holy spot where their ‘statue’ had been. 

Given that Crawly didn’t seem to be _doing_ anything, it didn’t seem especially likely that Heaven would know he hadn’t smote them. And he could always come back, if the Demon stayed as still as they had been. 

Aziraphale stood and began walking out of the market. Yes, that seemed the right course of action. After all, smiting a Demon who wasn’t even lucid was far from sporting. They could have it out at a later date, in more balanced circumstances. 

Sort out that whole Cain business once and for all. Regardless of whether or not Crawly was being really evil at present, they still hadn’t resolved that. Which they had to, obviously. For the greater good. 

And they would, once Crawly was up and about again. 


	78. 3239 BC - Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for injury and references to torture, murder, and adultery.

_3239 BC. Hell._

Crawly swaggered up to Dagon’s desk and gave them her signature bow. “All hail Satan,” she said. 

“All hail Satan.”

She smiled snakely, straightening up. “Lord Dagon. The Demon Crawly, here to report from Earth.”

Dagon glowered at her. “Crawly. Sit.”

She sat. 

“Before you give your report,” they said, “I have been instructed to commend you.”

“Commend me? Why?”

“We’ve received more damned souls,” said Dagon. “Descendants of the first humans.”

“Oh,” said Crawly intelligently. She hadn’t interacted with Adam and Eve’s descendants in… ages. A really long time. Centuries, probably. Not that she’d been great at keeping time lately.* “I’m glad my work’s paying off,” she bluffed.

(* After leaving Mohenjo-daro, she’d spent a solid twenty years holding completely still in different places. Lot easier than actually doing work, staring into space. She’d nearly been discorporated at least twice—once by that Angel, the other time by a group of humans with enough common sense to know that a hyper realistic statue with snake eyes probably wasn’t a statue at all. She’d gotten some nice scars that time.)

“It did, terribly,” said Dagon. “We’re receiving the majority of the souls from Earth. So you’re being commended.”

“What exactly does that entail?”

“Me commending you. Don’t get used to it. Our Lord got ideas about internal recognition of talent and now we have to follow through.”

“Right. Okay.”

“Now. Your report, Crawly.”

“Yeah, my report.” She cleared her throat. It was a new skill of hers, and a very useful one for extending silences.

Thing was, she hadn’t exactly… formulated a report. Normally, she memorized an—albeit embellished—list of all the bad deeds she’d done over time. This time, she… hadn’t.

“Well. I, er. ’S going well. Twenty-odd thefts. A murder. Lotta jealousy.” Mainly during her ‘statue’ phase, that one. “Plenty of adultery. Some, er—the eating one? And the sleeping one?”

Dagon’s glower was intensifying, their form’s grasp on human presentation slipping. 

Crawly swallowed.

“And the long-term temptation this time,” she said quickly, “I got somebody kicked out of her house.”

“Really,” said Dagon flatly.

“Yup. I convinced a family that the oldest family member was out to get them. They kicked her out on the street. Hurt her so bad she didn’t eat or sleep for…” Couldn’t say twenty years. Humans wouldn’t last that long. ’Specially not an old one. “...weeks. And she, er. Died. Painfully.”

“This old human,” said Dagon. “Innocent, I hope?”

“Played with the kids,” said Crawly. “Helped cook. Did her job. Etcetera. Erm. Yeah.”

“Innocent,” decided Dagon.

Crawly winced. She’d really screwed that one up, hadn’t she? No sense going over it again though. Satan knew she’d spent twenty years going over it. 

Although, actually. She had to hope Satan _didn’t_ know. If Satan knew, she was in big trouble. 

“Excellent,” said Dagon. “You’ve tempted satisfactorily.”

“Really?” asked Crawly hopefully.

“No,” said Dagon and laughed.

“Right,” said Crawly.

“One murder, Crawly? Two, if you count an old woman? Twenty measly thefts?” They stood, looming over the desk at Crawly.

“This isn’t the 3700’s where anything goes,” they said. “A Demon has to pull her weight these days, or else…”

“Or else what?”

“Or else,” said Dagon, smiling Demonically, “I consult Hastur.”

Oh, bless it. 

She put on her most winning smile. “Come on now—I’m your best operative on Earth! You can’t turn me over to Hastur.”

“You are our ‘best’ operative on Earth,” said Dagon. “That’s the point. You’re not bad enough. And you’re our only operative on Earth.”

“But—Hastur! Hastur’s a—a—” 

Any of the words she came up with were negative, which only proved Dagon’s point.

“Exactly,” said Dagon. “You’d better have done more next time, Crawly. Beelzebub’s made it policy.”

Crawly swallowed. “Zze did?”

“Zze did,” said Dagon, with relish. 


	79. 3228 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for nudity.

_3228 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_.

Aziraphale stood on a hill on the outskirts of Ur. The wind was quite a bit stronger up here than down among the buildings and all. He’d been consulted on a proper Angelic meeting place, however, and this was the best he’d been able to come up with. 

He just hoped Nanael—the Angel who was coming—had been briefed on how time functioned on Earth. Otherwise he might have a rather long wait to look forward to. 

He twisted the edge of the wool shawl he’d brought to keep warm. 

Then an Angel appeared. 

They were rather taller than Aziraphale, with the correct number of eyes, but not nearly enough clothing. 

At least he’d made the right decision picking somewhere even slightly remote for their meeting place. 

“Nanael, I presume?” asked Aziraphale.

“Yes. I am the Principality Nanael.”

“Aziraphale.” 

“I know.”

“Quite.” Aziraphale looked them up and down. They had a rather large gold spot on their chest and abdomen. Clothing could cover that up nicely. 

The gold patch on their cheek was a different story. Oh, well.

“Tell me, were you informed as to human customs of this area? Regarding clothing?” Aziraphale asked.

“No,” said Nanael. “Clothing is a symbol of humanity’s Fall from Eden.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I’ve found it rather essential to interacting with them, I’m afraid. In this area, at any rate. Some locations are less stringent. It’s to do with the sun.”

“Is that why you are wearing clothing?”

“Yes, it is,” said Aziraphale. “It’s also helpful for when it’s cold.”

“Cold,” said Nanael tonelessly.

“Cold, yes. The air gets sort of—bitey. Unpleasant to be in without some sort of covering. It’s a bit chilly up here, in fact.”

“Chilly.”

“Like cold,” said Aziraphale. “A mild form of cold. Would you like some clothing?”

“I have no preference regarding clothing.”

Aziraphale conjured up some clothes. “There you are. Put them on, and I’ll show you around the city.”

Nanael took the clothes, studying first them, then Aziraphale. Then they put the clothes on.

“Very good,” said Aziraphale encouragingly. “Now, then. We can walk down to the city and I’ll explain a few things on the way. Does that sound good?”

“It sounds morally neutral.”

“I suppose it is, really. It’s a turn of phrase. Would you be amenable to walking to the city while I explain things?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful. Off we go.” Aziraphale began walking down the hill. 

Nanael followed, and Aziraphale slowed down to match their pace. 

“This is Ur,” said Aziraphale, gesturing toward the city. “I’ve stayed in this area for, oh—a bit more than four hundred years now.”

Nanael looked nonplussed.

“That’s a long time for the humans,” said Aziraphale. “They live around seventy or eighty years, generally speaking. Except for some of the descendants of the ones from the Garden. They last quite a bit longer. Five hundred years or so.”

“How is this relevant to my assignment?”

“One needs to know these things,” said Aziraphale. “I know it seems a bit odd, but the humans are generally more likely to listen if they think you are also human. At least for a little while.”

“I understand,” said Nanael.

“To that end,” said Aziraphale, “it might behoove you to know what you will tell humans curious about your, er. Mark.”

“My mark.”

“There’s a bit of gold on your face,” said Aziraphale. “I imagine it’s analogous to my hair being white. Or a Demon having snake eyes and a snake on their face. For example. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Demons should be ashamed,” said Nanael.

Verbal communication was rather failing Aziraphale today.

“Sorry, no. I mean, the markers of our Angelic nature are nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I understand.”

“I’d recommend saying that it’s a birthmark.” Aziraphale coughed, stepping over a stream. “That is, a differently pigmented or raised portion of the skin. On humans, they’re usually pink, or darker brown, or white. I haven’t seen gold specifically, but I’m sure it won’t be too much trouble.”

“A birthmark,” repeated Nanael.

“Yes, that’s it.”

“What do you tell the humans about your hair?”

“Well, since humans naturally have white hair at times, I generally tell them I was born with it, or that my hair went white early. Depending on the situation.”

“Is that not lying?”

“Oh, I don’t think so. I mean, technically speaking, insofar as I was born, it was with white hair. And I believe that counts as early.” He paused. “And, even if it were lying, it would be for the greater good and in service of the Plan. I can’t very well lead humans to pursue more virtuous lives of their own free will if they think I’m some sort of infernal being.”

“I understand.”

“Excellent! I think we’ll get along splendidly. This is just the city now. I’ll show you around and then you can go, erm. Do your task.”

No one had bothered to tell Aziraphale what the task was. 

“I understand,” said Nanael. “You are a good Angel, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale beamed. 


	80. 3221 BC - Heaven

_3221 BC. Heaven_.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Er. Hello, most holy and esteemed Angels. I am Aziraphale, a Principality. And I’m here, it would seem, to tell you about service on Earth.”

Since Nanael’s successful mission, someone had decided that Aziraphale should instruct more Angels on how to operate down below. It was rather flattering. 

Before him were an assembly of his brethren. Principalities, archangels—as distinguished from Archangels—and suchlike. Gabriel hovered at the back in a form which was mostly corporeal, though more Angelic than human. 

“I’ve been posted on Earth for a relatively long time now, as humans think of it. Nearly eight hundred years now.” Oh dear, he just said ‘now’ twice. “Humans consider forty years to be a long time,” he added. 

One of the Angels in the front developed another pair of wings.

Aziraphale focused on the back wall. “I suppose the first thing to consider is mimicking human appearance. Many humans care quite a bit about appearance. The ones who can see, at any rate. And, quite simply, they get uncomfortable when they can tell you’re not human just by looking. Or frightened. Or tetchy. Or occasionally extremely awed. The point is, none of those states are very good if one wants them to listen to you.”

Another Angel about halfway back and to the right blinked a few dozen eyes at him.

Aziraphale’s body was not fond of this whole situation, it seemed. His innards felt a bit squirmy. 

“Human bodies appear quite simple, but humans can be very perceptive, so it’s important to get it right. The most common allotment is two arms, two legs, two eyes, and no wings. You can have fewer, but I wouldn’t recommend more. And fewer can make things a bit difficult in comparison. Why don’t we all give it a try?”

The assembled Angels shifted uncomfortably. 

“Obviously, it will be a bit easier for those of you who have a corporeal body, but I’d like to see the rest of you too, so you’re prepared once you’ve got one.”

The Angel in the front with extra wings, who appeared to be solid, shifted to a vaguely humanoid shape.

Aziraphale beamed, pointing to them. “Excellent! That’s wonderful. It’ll become easier with practice.”

There were still a few feathers in their hair. Oh, well. That was likely what would mark their Angelic nature. 

He looked back to the rest of the Angels. “Here we go, then. Pip-pip. Let’s not be shy.”

The assembly rippled, and most of them popped into humanoid forms. In the back, Gabriel’s body was still there, fully Angelic. Though they themself didn’t seem to be present.

Aziraphale smiled to himself. If Gabriel had that much confidence in him, he wouldn’t disappoint.

He directed his attention back to the assembly. One caught his eye, draped in white robes not dissimilar to the ones given to the Guardians of Eden. He waved to them. “Hello there! Yes, I am addressing you. You’ve done a smashing job of it. Can anyone else identify what they’ve done so wonderfully?”

A small one toward the back responded in a voice not unlike wind rustling through reeds. “They’ve got a covering?”

“Exactly,” Aziraphale said with what he hoped was a supportive gesture. “Humans in the area occupied by the descendants of Adam and Eve typically cover their bodies with fibrous material of some kind. Usually made of grasses or, er, the warming covering on animals. It doesn’t harm the animals, of course. Why don’t we all give it a try, hmm?”

Another wave of divine energy passed over the assemblage. Most of the Angels managed well enough. A few still hadn’t quite gotten the form right. One had holes in their robe to accommodate a number of protuberances beyond human comprehension. Oh, well.

“Let’s see. Er. You there,” Aziraphale said. “It’s important to present only within the humans’ plane of reality, remember?”

The Angel had the decency to look slightly chagrined.

“Lovely,” he said. “Now, I believe I’m meant to return to Earth shortly—I’ve a blessing to do by nightfall, I’m afraid—but you’re all doing wonderfully. Should you wish for a second opinion, I recommend stopping by a human village in a location different to the one where you’re to be performing your assignment, and seeing how the residents react.” Hopefully, not too many humans would be disturbed should a particularly inattentive Angel appear. 

“Toodle-oo, then. I hope to see you all on Earth in due course.”


	81. 3208 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence and discorporation.

_3208 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia_.

Crawly peered around the side of an alley, glancing between the blank walls, then went on past. 

There was an Angel in the city. She didn’t like it. In part because it wasn’t a familiar Angel. It just felt… different, to the Angel she’d met before. Harsher, maybe. Not that Aziraphale was _friendly_ , mind. 

Point was, Crawly was trying to avoid the Angel if she could help it. Not worth the trouble, really. As long as they went away. She had to get in after them and reverse whatever they’d done. 

She scanned the road ahead warily. The Angel was nearby. She could sense that much. But she’d been putting off this temptation for months now, and Satan help her, she didn’t want a repeat of her last review in Hell.

A wave of divine energy washed over her. Ugh. How was it that one Angel felt spikier than another?

She heard a door close, and turned to see—oh, bless. An Angel. That was definitely an Angel.

Had no one told them that humans didn’t glow? Because this Angel was literally glowing. 

They hadn’t caught sight of her yet, which was handy. She could, in theory, get away before they spotted her. Thing was, she wasn’t sure if Hell could sense these things. It seemed more likely they would with this Angel, who was basically the divine equivalent of an elephant in—in— 

In a place with a lot of things that shouldn’t be around elephants, that’s what. 

And it would look fantastic in her next report if she pulled it off.

“Hey! Angel!” Crawly shouted. “How come you’re glowing?”

The Angel turned, movements jerky. Really not used to a human body, then. That could work in Crawly’s favor. 

She walked right up to the confused Angel, circling them as they watched her with wide eyes. 

Aziraphale suddenly seemed almost savvy in comparison.

Almost. 

“Who are you?” The Angel boomed.

“Nobody,” said Crawly. “Just wondering why you’re glowing.”

“I am an Angel.”

Crawly laughed. “We’re not supposed to tell people things like that, y’know.”

“Are you an Angel?”

“Eh, more or less.” She returned to the Angel’s front. “Sssort of to the left and a bit… down.” She made eye contact.

The Angel recoiled, making a very undignified noise Crawly wished she could bottle and save for special occasions. 

“Demon!” the Angel shouted in a few too many dimensions to be entirely comfortable.

Crawly managed not to flinch. “Took you long enough,” she drawled. “Crawly. Temptress of Eden. Pleasssed to make your acquaintance.”

The Angel squawked again. 

This really was too easy.

“Now, I don’t have anything against you, specifically,” said Crawly. “So I’m willing to overlook it this time.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This is my city,” said Crawly. “So, as far as I’m concerned, you have two options: one, you can get the Heaven out of here and tell whoever’s in charge that this spot’s taken. Or, two, you can stick around and see exsssactly what I’m capable of. Capiche?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Right.” Crawly leaned in, and said in her best, most Demonic voice: “Get out of my city, Angel.”

The Angel glowed brighter, face twisting into an expression of fury and indignation. 

Maybe that was a little too far.

She prepared to back away.

“How dare you,” said the Angel. “I am Diniel! I am here to guide humanity toward the greater good.”

Crawly rolled her eyes. “Oh, shut up, wingbag. Humans aren’t going to listen to you if you can’t even look like one.”

The Angel lunged at her. 

Crawly ducked and elbowed them in the diaphragm before ducking under one arm. 

They groaned, then started coughing. 

Angel hadn’t even practiced breathing before coming down. Ha.

Crawly shoved them in the back and sent them sprawling into the road. She jumped on their back, ignoring the annoyed prickles of instinctive ‘do-not-be-on-the-Angel-bad-idea’ reaction it inspired. 

“Why’d they let you down here in this state, anyway?” She asked as conversationally as she could manage. “Seems to me Heaven would know well enough to leave it to—gah.”

The Angel swung their arm in a direction arms weren’t supposed to go and hit her in the chest, sending her skidding into the dirt. 

Well, if that’s how it was. 

Crawly scrambled up and launched herself at their legs as they tried to stand, sending them both into the dirt again. 

She’d have thought Angels would be stronger. Maybe it was just this one. 

She bit down into their calf, fangs manifested and extended. 

The Angel gasped in pain, and she pulled off, grimacing. 

Thing to remember: Angels taste bad. 

The Angel’s body began shaking from the venom, and she backed away. Sure enough, the Angel separated from the body. Crawly shielded her eyes as it vanished in an explosion of holy light.

She shuddered, wiping her mouth with one arm. 

The few humans still in the square looked from the vacated body to her, and started murmuring. 

Right. Probably best not to hang around after a display like that. 


	82. 3200 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to murder.

_3200 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia._

Aziraphale ran his fingers over a bolt of fine linen. He’d nearly worn through his current clothing, which was quite the inconvenience. Unfortunately, none of the weavers in Ur had quite the quality he was looking for, so he’d decided to venture a bit farther afield. 

After all, the higher quality the linen, the longer it would last. That was* how it worked, wasn’t it? And it wouldn’t do to wear more than was strictly warranted and take the resources from humans. 

(* It wasn’t, really. The linen Aziraphale preferred was very fine, and ought to have worn through after a few decades. His current wardrobe was hanging on by a few threads and the pressure of Angelic expectations on reality.)

Still, he was a bit uneasy to be in Uruk. Crawly was here. It was practically the Demon’s hometown, after so long! Though they did seem to leave periodically. And he was certain Crawly knew he was there as well.

Perhaps they could strategically avoid one another to stave off confrontation. He hoped so, anyway. He really would rather not fight anyone. 

A different Demon had appeared in Ur a few years earlier, tempting humans to harm one another. Aziraphale had been compelled to dissuade them from the pursuit, forcefully. It was most unpleasant.

Though Crawly’s Demonic presence did seem to be growing closer. Much too close. In fact, he ought to finish shopping and— 

“Angel,” said a much too familiar voice. 

He turned, schooling his face into a righteous scowl. “We both know you know my name, Crawly.”

“ _Aziraphale_ , then,” they said. “What are you doing in my city? I thought you were smart enough not to try it.”

“Smart enough— I beg your pardon?”

“Your Angelic friends have been waltzing in every other year trying to get me to leave,” said Crawly. “You didn’t know?”

“Oh, that. Of course I knew about it,” he said, not entirely truthfully. He knew there were more other Angels on Earth these days, obviously. He hadn’t known they were going after Crawly. If he’d known, he’d have offered to take over, considering his knowledge of Earth was comparable to Crawly’s. 

“Did you really?”

“Oh, do be quiet,” said Aziraphale. 

“Nah,” said Crawly. “What are you doing here, Angel?”

“Aziraphale,” he said automatically. “And I’m here to purchase clothing.”

“To _buy_ clothing?” They glanced over the stall Aziraphale had been looking at. “Fancy stuff, that.”

The vendor looked pointedly at Aziraphale. “It is. Are you going to buy anything, sir?” They glanced at Crawly. “Maybe something for the lady?”

“Oh, not a lady, I should think,” said Aziraphale. “We’ll be going.” He marched from the shop and went into the square. 

Crawly followed. “I am, in fact, a lady. Or as much of one as I can be, anyway, considering.”

“It’s not a question of your gender,” said Aziraphale imperiously. “It is, however, a question of your respectability.”

“Oi,” said Crawly. “I’m plenty respectable, thanks.”

They stopped by one of the canals, and Aziraphale turned to face her. She was frowning at him in apparent offense. He really ought to smite her. 

He sighed. “Crawly. I assure you, my only purpose here is to buy fabric to be made into new garments.”

“Good thing, too. Those are—what—three hundred years out of style?”

“Two hundred and fifty,” he corrected. “More or less. The point is, if you don’t leave very soon indeed, I will find myself obligated to smite you.”

“Kind of you to warn me.”

“I rather thought so.”

“I really did not mean it like that,” said Crawly. “Is this still about Cain and Abel?”

“I should have thought that was obvious.”

“Fair enough. Except for one detail.”

“Oh?”

Crawly leaned into his space, frightful yellow eyes staring directly at Aziraphale. “I didn’t tempt Cain into it.”

This, again? “Of course you did. You’re a Demon.”

“Except that I literally did not.”

“Why were you there before me, then?”

“I was sunning myself on a rock nearby,” said Crawly, almost tiredly. “Woke up pretty much as it happened. Hid behind the rock when She popped in. And I went over to see when you showed.”

Oh, dear. Crawly had been very consistent since the beginning, hadn’t she? What if she were telling the truth? Seven hundred years was a long time to lie about something. 

If she were human, the Angelic thing to do would be to believe her.

He sighed. “Very well. I believe you.”

“Wait, you do?”

“I am an Angel. I tell the truth.”

Crawly grinned. “That’s fantastic. Yeah. Great. I didn’t do it, and Aziraphale believes me. Didn’t expect that to happen.”

“Why not?” Angels were meant to be forgiving, after all.

“I’m a Demon.”

“Oh. Yes.” He straightened up, as Angelic as he could be while maintaining his human presentation. “The Lord is forgiving.”

For some reason, Crawly snorted at that. “I’ll get out of here, then. So’s not to be smited and all.”

She gave him a mocking gesture of farewell and strolled away, black skirts swishing after her. 


	83. 3188 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to torture.

_3188 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia._

Crawly didn’t like livestock markets. They smelled bad, for one. And something about them just rubbed her the wrong way. The noises, maybe. 

Still, they were great for temptations, between the general grating atmosphere and the plethora of valuable animals she could convince people to steal. There were usually a few wealthy merchants around who could take the loss, too. Not that she cared about them. 

This particular market was near the outskirts of Uruk. Or at least, the current outskirts. Where exactly the outskirts were seemed to change from decade to decade, which was more than a little frustrating. 

Used to be, she could get from the Anu district out to the farms without too much trouble. Took a lot more than that these days. Especially with those canals. Blasted Adad-iddinam and his canals. 

She walked through the market, pretending to examine the livestock like she wanted to buy one. She didn’t, obviously. No, she was watching the people. 

Plenty of potential temptees in the crowd today. That wasn’t an issue, at least. One particular pair of young humans looked like they could use it. 

No, the problem was what to get them to steal. Goats were convenient. Smaller. Feisty things. As long as she didn’t have to do the actual stealing, though, she didn’t care about that. Which she didn’t, have to do the stealing. That was the whole point of temptations.

Sheep, on the other hand, were easier to come by. Also differently valuable. A goat provided food. A sheep? Not so much. A trade, maybe. Clothes, for sure. 

A cow or donkey might do it. Boring, though. She’d done both in the last few years. And cows were so big. Tough to convince a human to steal. Too flashy. Had to be a human with enough confidence to convince everybody they really did own the cow. 

They turned a corner, and stopped.

A wealthy-looking merchant led a white unicorn through the market. She’d seen herds of unicorns on her travels, mainly in this area. Its horn had been polished recently. Nasty things, horns. She’d found that out the hard way when a horned Demon got ahold of her in Hell last review. Still had a scar on her arm to prove it. 

A unicorn theft would certainly make for a flashy temptation. 

She walked up to the merchant. “S’cuse me.”

They turned and looked at her. “Oh, hey. Who’re you?”

“Lady Crawly. May the gods Inanna and Anu keep you in good health.”

“I’m Ishbi-erra. May the gods Inanna and Anu keep you in good health,” he replied. “Did you need something?”

“I didn’t realize there were unicorns in captivity,” she said. 

The merchant grinned. “There aren’t, normally. Got this one off a very talented friend of mine, along with another two and a foal.”

“Impressive,” she said. “Fast, aren’t they?”

“Very. Don’t like being caught. My friend lost two more when I got these.”

“I see.” She looked the unicorn up and down. “What are you doing with it?”

“Exhibition, mainly. Not good for much else, really.” He turned. “Have a pleasant day, Lady Crawly. I have places to be.”

She nodded and let him leave, then meandered toward the pair of humans she’d identified before as ripe for temptation. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Crawly. Did you two see that unicorn? Magnificent animal, if you ask me.”


	84. 3176 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

_3176 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_. 

Aziraphale watched as another Angel vanished, and sighed. This was the fourth this decade. Heaven had decided that it was necessary he bear witness to the departure and arrival of every single one. 

This time he’d chosen a secluded spot not terribly far from Ur, relative to the hill he’d used for the first thirty-odd years. It had been something of a task, convincing Gabriel that it was necessary to switch. The hill had become increasingly less private, though, as settlements encroached upon it.

Not to mention cold.

He turned and began walking back toward Ur. The other Angel had been tasked with a miracle to inspire continued faith in Methuselah’s family. Aziraphale was apparently ‘too close to one group of humans,’ and was forbidden to interact until given further instruction. Why, he wasn’t entirely sure, but Gabriel had made it quite clear. 

He wasn’t certain how he felt about that, but he didn’t think he was meant to work it out. Seemed terribly risky territory. Suppose he found he didn’t like it?

No, it simply couldn’t be done. 

So he let the squishy mess of entirely too human-feeling emotion sit somewhere in the vicinity of his diaphragm, and did his best to ignore it. It was no trouble, really. Admittedly, he’d spent quite a lot of time while on Earth attempting to work out what the emotions were, so it seemed mildly counterproductive in that regard. 

Still. Simply couldn’t be done. Absolutely not. 

He passed by the home of a farmer he’d encountered on his way in, greeting the family as he passed them. They returned his greeting, looking more than a little uncomfortable, for some reason.

It probably was a bit odd, watching two people walk to a particularly desolate area and only one return. Or one person walk there and two return, for that matter. Which had also happened. 

Still, the relative number of confused humans was lower this way compared to the hill, and that was what mattered, wasn’t it?

And now he’d made this trip, he should have a few years until the next one in which to conduct divine influencing on his own terms. Although, it did seem more than a bit odd to have multiple Angels in this one location. Aziraphale all the time and the others popping in for individual tasks with Adam and Eve’s descendants. 

Perhaps he could spend some time away. After all, the Demon Crawly had disappeared for quite a while at times, and look at the state of things! Uruk had continued on its downward trajectory even with the Demon absent. 

He continued on to a path leading back into Ur. Yes, Ur would likely get along just fine without his influence. For a few years, at least. He could always pop back whenever he was alerted to the arrival of another Angel. 

He’d be able to bring his influence to other areas. Get a good sense of how exactly the planet was laid out to begin with. After all, it wouldn’t do for the other side to know the way of things and him not to. Morally speaking, it was his _responsibility_ to see the world outside Ur. 

He’d bring it up at his next review. 


	85. 3168 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

_3168 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia_. 

Crawly walked through the streets of Uruk, scanning the crowd. She was due for another long-term, proper temptation about now, and she’d been looking for a good candidate for several months now. An actually good one, mind. No point tempting someone who was already evil. 

Once, good people just popped up, and she’d barely had to look. These days, though, Uruk was a right mess of corruption and vindictive humans. Probably her own influence, really, but she didn’t much feel like thinking about that. 

She made herself trip, and no one came to help her. Bless it, that’d been an excellent trick a few centuries back.

She ducked into an establishment which seemed to be selling sweets of some kind. The air was thick with the scent of wine and honey. Might as well try sitting still for a bit. Wasn’t like walking around was working today. 

Crawly bought a bag of almond sweets and a cup of wine, and settled into a corner to pretend to ingest them while watching the humans. The bench she chose was predictably hard and unpleasant, but moving seemed… transparent. So she stayed put.

An adult human walked in with a small child. Probably around… no, Crawly wasn’t going to bother. 

The human bought a selection of sweets, and sat with another group of humans. The kid didn’t get a sweet, sitting on the floor cross-legged and looking around the room with bored, dark eyes. 

Crawly waved. 

The kid brightened, and said something to their adult, then crossed the room to sit across from her. 

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Crawly.”

“My name is Enheduanna. May the gods Inanna and Anu keep you in good health,” the kid said politely.

“You too,” said Crawly, then reached into their bag and pulled out a sweet. “Want some?” 

Enheduanna took it and ate it quickly.

If nothing else, she might be able to take it down as a minor temptation. She’d started noting her temptations on clay tablets. The symbols humans used for accounting didn’t quite line up with her purposes, but she’d worked out a system.

“Want more?” Crawly asked, opening the bag and pushing it toward her. “I’ve already had enough,” she added.

Enheduanna took it and began eating them in quick succession, until she finished the bag, and looked back at Crawly. “Why are your eyes like that?”

“They’ve been like this since I got my body,” she said. Same as she’d told Thangadurai and Jayaraj when they were young.

Best not think about that.

Enheduanna giggled. “Funny way to say you were born like that,” she said. 

“You think so?”

“Yeah. Almost sounds like you weren’t born at all. That’s silly, though. Mum says everyone had to be born sometime. Do you have more almonds?” 

Crawly pulled a bag of almonds that hadn’t been there before from a fold in her clothes and pushed it across the table. 

Maybe this would work. Kids were plenty good, after all. Or at least not bad, strictly speaking. And very impressionable, far as she’d heard. 

“Thanks,” said Enheduanna quickly, and began eating these too. 

“Don’t thank people,” said Crawly in a practiced tone which succeeded at being both casual enough to be brushed off if necessary and absolutely serious, if the human was susceptible to the idea. She’d been particularly pleased when she worked out how to get it just right. Very useful indeed. 

“Why not?” Enheduanna asked, mouth full of bits of almonds.

It was disgusting, but Crawly could ignore that for the sake of the job. And her pride. Bad table manners weren’t, strictly speaking, actual Demonic activity, but they might as well be for all they got adult humans worked up.

“Other people aren’t usually worth it,” said Crawly seriously. “Lots of ’em are rotten through and through. You’re better than that, though. Doesn’t make sense thanking people who don’t deserve it, does it?”

“That’s what I think!” said Enheduanna. “My uncle came over last week, and mum said I had to have extra good manners, but he smells bad and yells at people and doesn’t look at me when I’m talking and told me to go away so he could talk to Dad. I don’t like him. He’s a bad man. So I said, why should I be nice to him if he won’t be nice to me? But Mum just sent me to bed.”

Strong moral compass, that. She could work with it. Had to befriend the parents, though, if she wanted to talk to the kid. “Say, why don’t you introduce me to your mum? I’ll talk to her about it.” She winked.

Enheduanna gasped, grinning. “Woah. Do it again.”

She did it again.

Enheduanna giggled. “I will _definitely_ introduce you to my mum.”


	86. 3161 BC - Liangzhu City

_3161 BC. Liangzhu City, Yangtze River Delta_. 

Aziraphale paid a vendor selling portions of a dish made of what appeared to be millet, and continued on his way. He didn’t eat it, of course. No, he handed it to the first downtrodden child he encountered. 

The child took it and thanked him, then ran to another child who was likely a friend or relative. Then the two went their way.

Aziraphale liked this area. He’d only been here for a few months, and didn’t expect to stay more than a year. Thus far, he’d managed with reasonable success to spend the time between assignments in Ur visiting other locations. The time he had varied from a few months to three years, but the broken-up nature didn’t seem to detract from the experience. 

In fact, he was almost appreciative of the obligation to leave periodically. He had a feeling he might lose track of time otherwise, and spend decades before moving on. Or a century! Which simply would not do, considering his objective was to see as much of the world as possible, to best thwart the Demon.

He turned to walk along the water, where houses seemed to stand in the river on what the locals called ‘stilts.’ It was a rather nifty idea, in his opinion. 

A human he’d met previously gestured greeting, and he waved back, but didn’t make any other move to interact and instead turned back inland at the earliest opportunity. He simply had no desire to hold a conversation at this time.

Many hushed voices bubbled from a nearby street. Odd. Humans, in Aziraphale’s experience, tended to grow louder in groups, not quieter. 

He followed the sound to a crowd gathered outside what appeared to be a workshop, built of compacted soil. Inside the workshop, a middle-aged human dressed in distinctly masculine clothing held a sculpture crafted of fine white stone. Jade, perhaps? The humans in this area were rather enamoured of the stuff. It appeared to be a sculpture of a dog.

The sculptor seemed to be describing his techniques in crafting it, and Aziraphale stopped for a while to listen. The dog really was beautiful. Amazing, the things humans came up with. Making facsimiles of animals out of stone would never have occurred to him. 

Eventually, the sculptor finished his speech, and the humans began drifting away. Aziraphale stayed for a moment, and asked to touch the sculpture.

The sculptor laughed. “Not unless you’d like to buy it.”

“Oh.” He couldn’t do that. Buying material objects of no practical value was certainly not a good use of his resources. “I’m afraid I couldn’t afford that.”

“Few can,” the sculptor said with a laugh, turning back into his shop. “You foreign?” 

Aziraphale chuckled uncomfortably. He hadn’t bothered changing into something more suited to his new locations. After all, his clothing from Ur was perfectly functional, and it seemed a waste to buy new clothing. 

It didn’t help his integration in the slightest, though. Nor did his general appearance. The humans here had straight hair, and slightly different features to his own, though Aziraphale blended in very well indeed in Ur. 

“Hello?” the sculptor asked.

He started. “Oh, yes, sorry, quite. Hello. Drifting off into thought, I’m afraid. Silly me. Yes, I am. I’m from a place rather far west of here. I’ll be getting on, then. Best of luck with the sculpting!”

He turned and walked away. 

Sometimes he still hadn’t quite got the knack for humans.


	87. 3153 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to adultery, slavery, and murder.

_3153 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia_.

Crawly knocked politely on the door to Enheduanna’s house and waited until her mother opened it. 

She smiled at Enheduanna’s mother, who scowled when she saw her face. “What do you want, then?”

“To see your daughter, of course,” Crawly said. 

“Of course.” She didn’t move.

“May I come in?” 

She moved aside grudgingly. 

These past few years, she’d been increasingly against Crawly, who had a feeling she knew that Crawly wasn’t quite human. Still, it was fun, seeing how humans reacted when she didn’t age. Suspicious-but-too-polite-to-mention-it* was one of her favourite ones. The humans tied themselves up in ethical knots over it, and it was absolutely hilarious.

(* One particular human, a friend of Amur-ili, spent the better part of the 3450’s making increasingly strained facial expressions each time he saw Crawly. Then, one day in 3432 or so, he saw Crawly for the first time in ten years. Crawly smiled at him, and he first spluttered, then began shouting incoherently, then finally burst into tears. Amur-ili gave her a proper scolding for that, which she thoroughly ignored.)

Crawly gave Enheduanna’s mother a coy wave, which only intensified her expression, then headed for Enheduanna’s part of the house. 

Technically speaking, Enheduanna was meant to be married by now, but Crawly’s influence had made her both contrary and stubborn. She was, however, _very_ fond of a female friend named Iltani, and had been for some years. It was only a matter of time before something happened there.

She swept into the room where Enheduanna sat. “Hey. What’s up?”

Enheduanna looked up from the table where she was poring over clay tablet records of some kind. She worked with a granary these days. “Oh, Crawly! I didn’t expect to see you this week.”

“What can I say? I got bored.”

“It’s just as well. I have something I wanted to tell you.”

Crawly slumped into a chair. “What’s that?”

“Iltani’s husband’s gone.”

Crawly blinked. “She was _married_?” She saw Iltani every few weeks at this point, she visited Enheduanna so often. She’d never heard word she’d gotten married, though.

“Oh, I forgot we kept that a secret from you too!” Enheduanna laughed. 

“Right—secrets. Good on you. Excellent job.”

How was he gone, though? She hadn’t killed him, had she? If she had, Crawly supposed, at least she could write it down and call the temptation done. Still. The possibility made her innards feel all squirmy. 

“We kept the marriage from my family so it wouldn’t be a shock when he was gone.” Enheduanna began doing something with one of the tablets. “Didn’t mean to keep it from you. I know you can keep a secret. Oh, well.”

“Yeah. Er, what exactly happened to him?”

“We framed him for theft. He’s been arrested and set to work in service of the city.”

Not murder, then. That was good. Er. Bad. Actually, it was good, but she shouldn’t be thinking that. Being a Demon made words hard.

Crawly swallowed. “Right. Clever, that.”

Enheduanna looked up at her. “Are you all right, Crawly? You look a bit… ill. ”

“Fine! Proud of you.” There were worse things for a human to do to another one. She knew. She’d seen rather more of them than she’d like. “Excellent thinking, doing that to get what you want.”

“I know,” said Enheduanna. “So Iltani and I are moving in together soon, with him out of the way.”

“Congratulations,” said Crawly. Her mouth was dry.

Humans grew up so fast.


	88. 3139 BC - Australia

_3139 BC. Southeastern Coast of Australia_. 

Aziraphale looked out over the ocean. There really was quite a lot of it, he was finding. Covered most of the Earth, in fact. He hadn’t been particularly attentive during the Creation bit, preparing as he was for his duties on Earth, so the volume of ocean had been a pleasant surprise. 

The humans he was staying with this time around were a few paces away from the rocky section he was on, working on a ceremonial rock carving. 

Though it was fascinating speaking with humans about their various beliefs, he felt it would probably be frowned upon for an Angel to participate in religious practices other than the ones he was meant to encourage. So he did his best to politely excuse himself, which most humans seemed not to mind terribly. A few did, of course. He didn’t stay long in those cases. 

Indeed, seeing the variety of humans was one of the most interesting aspects of travelling. They ate different foods and slept in different sorts of structures or none at all, and adorned themselves differently with clothing and paint and trinkets. It was rather a pointed contrast to the relative uniformity of Heaven. 

Of course, there were some differences among Angels. Some had many eyes, or animal heads, or wheels, or appendages incomprehensible to the human mind. And the different ranks of Angels were different was well. He certainly wasn’t the same as an Archangel. 

No, it was the diversity of _thought_ that intrigued him more than anything else. If one were to ask a hundred Angels where the ocean came from, they would all tell you that it was Created by God. On the other hand, if one asked a hundred humans where the oceans came from, they would each have a completely different idea. 

It was probably a problem, really. He wasn’t meant to find blasphemy fascinating. But it was, that was the thing. There was variety and originality to it. Even if he knew it wasn’t true, there was something about the stories that spoke to him.

One of the humans touched his arm and offered him a piece of fish. He took it, so as not to be rude, though he couldn’t eat it. 

And really, most of the humans’ beliefs lent themselves to being good, which meant he ought to be for them. Not that he’d tell Gabriel that. 


	89. 3125 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence and references to both torture and murder.

_3125 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia_.

Crawly crouched between a pair of barrels. She wasn’t especially comfortable, but it was worth it. Hell had finally decided that they couldn’t let the new Angels on Earth go unchallenged and sent up the first Demon to counteract the divine influence.

This one was a low-ranked Demon named Glabus—or at least that was how they introduced themself to humans. Someone hadn’t bothered to tell them about human ideas of physical presentation, and Crawly was having brilliant time watching. 

Glabus sported golden brown hair, which was not strictly impossible but a very odd sight in this particular area. They wore the same sort of black robes Crawly had been sent up in, which were like nothing anyone in Uruk ever wore. Finally, and most absurdly, they had the twisted form of a canine wrapped around their neck and shoulder, half fused with their skin. It wasn’t quite inanimate, snout twitching or paw shifting position from time to time. 

Crawly put a lot of effort into minimizing her Demonic characteristics, and seeing how the humans reacted to Glabus, she felt a lot better about her success.

She’d seen multiple children burst into tears, and the street they were in was more deserted than she’d seen it in two hundred years. The only humans left were a trio of the young sort who enjoyed looking for trouble and one jewelry vendor who was visibly shaking, even from where Crawly hid. 

“You should kill them.” Glabus pointed to the young humans. 

The jewelry vendor shook their head. “I don’t want to,” they squeaked. “Sorry.”

Crawly smothered a laugh. Intimidation was handy sometimes, but mainly when one wanted a human to leave them alone. It definitely wasn’t the right way to open a temptation.

“You should kill them. They are annoying and you hate them.” Glabus’s voice wasn’t quite human either, just on the wrong side of ‘bird of prey shrieking.’

“I really don’t.”

Glabus raised a fist and the vendor cowered. “Sorry, sorry, please don’t hurt me!”

Glabus glanced at their fist, then back at the vendor. “That would not be hurting. Or it won’t seem like it. When I’m done.”

Crawly laughed properly this time and straightened up, striding out from behind her barrels. Wouldn’t do to leave a temptation unfulfilled. “Glabus,” she said jovially, “all hail Satan.”

“All hail Satan.” Glabus turned, the dog blinking. “Crawly. I’ve heard about you.”

“Resident Demon on Earth, at your service. And it looks like you need it.” She walked up to the vendor’s stall, leaning against it as she addressed the vendor. “Sorry about Glabus here. They’re not great at jokes.” She paused. “Say, why don’t you take the day off? I know an encounter with Glabus can be quite stressful. You deserve it.”

The jewelry vendor blinked. 

“Go on then. Can’t hurt to leave one time.”

They turned and ran away. 

Glabus rounded on Crawly. “I was doing well!”

“Ehh… no. No, you really weren’t. You don’t just _open_ with murder, what are you, an Angel?”

Glabus’s dog growled.

Crawly laughed again. “Thought not. I’ll just be off, then.” She turned, giving them a casual wave. “See you around. Oh, and Glabus.”

“What, Crawly.”

She turned back to face them. “Good luck.” 

Glabus lunged, and she snapped her fingers, vanishing. She reappeared on top of a hill far away, where she flung herself down and looked up at the sky. 

Having other Demons around would be fun. 


	90. 3119 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

_3119 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_. 

Aziraphale circled his new house, examining it for flaws and mistakes. One brick had a crack down the middle, and he miracled it sound. He did this a few times, until he was satisfied with his work, then went inside.

His house wasn’t furnished, really. He had a chair, a table, and a few baskets and jars, all but one of which were filled with goods for humans in need. The remaining basket contained his clothes. 

It was just the same as his house had been when he lived in Ur before, and wonderfully familiar for it. He’d seen the world—spent more than fifty years at it, in fact—and was ready for a bit of routine. Surely fifty years of travel would give him a passing understanding of the Earth, should he require such knowledge. 

He settled into the chair, humming to himself a little ditty he’d picked up on an island somewhere in the largest ocean. 

The best thing about being back in Ur so far was that the humans didn’t spare his appearance a third glance. Though his clothes were, perhaps, a bit out of style, and his hair was odd wherever he went, at least the people here had seen clothes like his. 

His features had shifted slightly while he was away, but his frequent trips back to Ur and the short duration of his absence meant that the changes were relatively minor. Given a decade or two, he’d resemble the residents of Ur as closely as he ever did.

A knock sounded at the door, and Aziraphale sighed. He’d spent most of his day so far speaking to humans about his house and was ready for a bit of peace and quiet. Perhaps if he ignored whoever it was, they’d go away.

Alas, he was out of luck, it seemed. Whoever it was knocked again, more forcefully this time. 

Aziraphale waved a hand, and something exceedingly lucky happened to the person across the street. Humans exclaimed in delight. 

There was another knock. 

Drat. 

He got to his feet and walked to the door, making a cursory attempt to form his expression into something vaguely resembling friendliness as befitted an Angel. He didn’t quite succeed, landing instead somewhere between passive aggressive and saccharine. 

Aziraphale opened the door a bit more roughly than strictly necessary. “What exactly is it you would like?”

A young human shrank back. “Sorry, sorry. Um, you’re Aziraphale, right?”

“I should certainly hope so, or I’d be rather less pleased to see you than I am.”

“May the god Nanna keep you in good health,” the human said quickly. 

Aziraphale did not return the sentiment, blasphemy as it was. 

The human swallowed visibly. “My dad helped to build your house, and he doesn’t think I know, but it’s not right.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“The foundation. It’s not sound. He did a shoddy job. He was convinced by… somebody, I don’t know who. Lady with strange eyes. He didn’t know who’d live here, but he wanted to finish fast. I wasn’t supposed to find out but I can’t see you get hurt, and—”

“That’s quite enough,” said Aziraphale. “Thank you for your concern, but I was aware and I assure you, I have it under control.”

“You… do?”

“I do.” Technically, he hadn’t been aware, but that didn’t change the fact that he could just miracle the foundation sound.

“Oh, thank Nanna,” the human said, visibly relaxing. “I was so worried. My dad’s not a bad person; I promise, he’s great. He just talked to the—”

“If you’ll excuse me,” said Aziraphale, “I’m quite busy fixing up the house. Thank you for your concern on my behalf. Why don’t you go on back home?”

“Yeah, okay.” The human nodded, and turned. “Good luck!”

Aziraphale watched as they departed. Then he went back into his house, miracled the foundation sound, and shut the door with rather more force than necessary.


	91. 3108 BC - Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence and discorporation.

_3108 BC. Hell_.

The pain of Crawly’s physical body suddenly disappeared. She uncurled from her defensive position slowly, taking in her surroundings. She was in Hell. A deserted part, thank Satan. 

She’d just been stabbed. Multiple times. And clobbered once or twice. A group of drunk humans spotted her eyes and apparently decided the only solution for something a bit out of the ordinary was murder. 

Bloody humans. 

She glanced around. At least she recognized the place. She could get to a doorway from here. Probably. If she couldn’t, she was properly screwed—couldn’t apply for a new body without anyone to apply _to_.

She tried to walk toward the door, but found it rather difficult due to her not having legs. It’d been a while, hadn’t it? She could just abandon all semblance of corporeal presentation, technically speaking.

Crawly sped across Hell at speeds far exceeding that of sound, letting out a metaphysical whoop along the way. She stopped in front of what was indeed a doorway, collected herself into something resembling a disrespectable Demon, and drifted through.

On the other side, a pair of the sort of low-ranked Demons whom other Demons considered disposable froze.

“You look terrible, mate,” one of them said.

“Ain’t you one of the surface ones?” said the other.

“I reckon they are. Keep gettin’ discorporated, surface duty ones.”

“They look all snakey, though. Was there a snakey one up top?”

“’Course there was, you innocent. First one, I think.”

“That couldn’t be her. First one knew how to get about, an’ all.”

“There’s not another snakey one. Gotta be her.”

“Ssshut up,” said Crawly. “Where’sss Dagon?”

“Why d’you want with Dagon?”

“None of your businesss.” Crawly’d forgotten how bad her hissing got without a body. “I am the firssst one, and believe me, I know what I’m doing. You don’t want to messs with me.”

The Demons froze. 

“Right.” The second Demon pointed to another doorway on the opposite side of the hall. “That way.”

“Thanksss—Satan. Thank Sssatan.” Crawly crossed the cavern and went through the doorway.

She needed a body, bless it. 


	92. 3099 BC - Lower Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence.

_3099 BC. Lower Egypt_.

Crawly stood on top of a hill, watching humans kill each other down below. Awfully messy. Not terribly efficient, either. 

At least her stomach wasn’t bothering to protest from way up here. She couldn’t make out faces. Just bigger stuff. Like the men in red and white crowns, leading their respective sides.

Her skin prickled with a presence. Strangely enough, it didn’t seem strictly divine or infernal. 

She looked back to see a red-haired being watching the battle just behind her. 

“Hello there,” said the being with a smile. “Lovely day for a battle.”

“Er, yeah.” Crawly turned away from the battle to face the newcomer. They didn’t seem like the sort of person she wanted to have her back to. Especially since she’d only just gotten a new body. 

“You’re a Demon, aren’t you?” They still didn’t look at her.

“Name’s Crawly.” She looked the being up and down. 

They were dressed in Egyptian battle garments, all a lurid shade of red. There was a hilt at their side for a sword, but it appeared to be empty. 

“I’m War.” She finally turned to meet her eyes. “Just arrived on Earth. Seems a nice place. Lots of flat areas.”

“Mm,” said Crawly noncommittally. “You from Below?”

“No,” said War. 

Crawly looked away. Ought to be from Hell, considering all the violence she was causing. “From Heaven?”

“No.”

“Right. Just from… somewhere?”

“Humans have something to do with it.” War looked away again, down at the battle. “There’s four of us. Though one’s been around all along.”

“I see,” said Crawly dishonestly. “Did you lose a sword?”

“They haven’t been invented yet.”

“Oh, right.” She’d seen a sword quite a lot in her first days on Earth, but now she thought about it, she hadn’t seen any since.

“Know where I can find one?” 

“Er, not really.” Crawly winced as the one in the white crown reached the one in the red crown, who’d fallen in battle. “An Angel had one. Not sure where it got off to.”

“Which Angel?” 

“Not sure,” said Crawly. She did know, of course. But somehow it seemed like giving War a flaming sword was a bad idea. Which of course meant Crawly _should_ tell her that the one who’d had a sword was named Aziraphale, but she didn’t feel like it. 

“Oh, well. I should’ve known a Demon wouldn’t bother learning an Angel’s name.”

Crawly did not grimace, humming noncommittally instead. 

“I’m sure I’ll find it someday,” said War. 

“Bad luck.”

The one in the white crown hoisted the red crown into the air like a trophy, apparently not caring that there was a dead man at his feet. The armies below broke into shouts of triumph and dismay. 

“Thank you,” said War. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, folks, is the first actual historical event! Recorded history is wild.


	93. 3087 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied/referenced forced marriage.

_3087 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia._

Aziraphale sat in the courtyard of a statesman’s home. The best word to describe it was opulent—full of finicky plant species arranged in intricate patterns. The house and wall also clearly belonged to someone wealthy, decorated with mosaics and carvings. 

He’d tired of quick and easy blessings and guidance. It was time for a change. Or rather, a bit of constancy. A proper challenge. So he’d searched the wealthy* of the city for a properly corrupt human. 

(* He did not include priests in his search as he felt their strong religious tendencies at odds with his own would complicate matters more than he’d like.)

The search led him here. Zimri-Lim, the owner of the house, had apparently been advocating taking away programmes which supported the poor. He was also young enough that Aziraphale would, if all went well, be able to spend a long time providing him with guidance.

Or really, a long time by human standards. Aziraphale found his own perception of time at odds with humans’. 

“Asir-fell, is it?” a voice asked. 

Aziraphale turned to see a human dressed in some of the finest linen he’d seen, dyed a gaudy red. He smiled. “Oh, yes—hello.”

“Zimri-Lim,” the human said, and dropped into a seat opposite Aziraphale.

He didn’t say the customary greeting, which was fine by Aziraphale, except that it did indicate extreme disregard for his company. 

“May the god Nanna keep you in good health,” said Aziraphale as calmly as he could. He had to set a good example, after all. 

“What did you want? I’m a busy man.” Zimri-Lim adopted a blatantly disrespectful posture.

Oh dear. “I’ve heard excellent things about you and wanted to meet you myself.”

A dramatic sigh. “I hope that’s not all.”

He hadn’t prepared for this well enough, had he? “Well, er, it’s a matter of some delicacy—”

“You didn’t want to marry my daughter, did you? Or my son? Frankly, Asir-lem, I don’t think you’re the sort of connection I want to make. Limited children, you know. Nothing personal.”

“Absolutely not.” Aziraphale shook his head quickly. “No, no, definitely not. I’m married. Erm.” What a cavalier way to discuss marriage! His poor children… “I run a business,” he blurted.

“Go on.”

“I, er, have a group of messengers. Who… dispense news! About goings-on. In the area. Politics, culture, that sort of thing. I thought I could be of service to you, considering your… position.”

If this worked, he’d actually have to form a group of messengers. Bother. 

Zimri-Lim leaned forward. “How so?”

“Well, public opinion is important. Imagine how much more successful you could be if there were people, er… shouting your praise? On the street?”

“I’ve never seen your messengers.”

“They keep odd hours.”

“Odd hours?”

“Yes, er, they catch the beginning and end of the working day for farmers, and… suchlike. ’Round the edges of the city.”

He just kept digging himself deeper, didn’t he? He really ought to stop that. 

Still, Zimri-Lim looked intrigued. That was good. 

“What would it cost me?” he asked.

Aziraphale shrugged. “Oh, not much. We could discuss it at one of our meetings about content.”

“One of?”

“Content is very important. Word choice, and all that. Enormous influence over how the people interpret it. We’ll have to get it exactly right.”

“I see,” said Zimri-Lim, then stood. “I’ll think about it.”

“Oh, must you go so soon?”

“I need a bath. And I’m done with this conversation.”

“Right, er. Mind how you go. I’ll come back next week?”

“Good-bye, Essa-lem.” Zimri-Lim turned and went back into his house.

Aziraphale sat for a moment, and blinked. What a rude man. Hadn’t even bothered to recall his name! Which wasn’t technically his name, but as far as Zimri-Lim was concerned, it was.

He would take a while to guide into good deeds, though, and that was rather the point. 


	94. 3078 BC - Abydos, Egypt

_3078 BC. Abydos, Egypt_.

Crawly leaned on the enclosure around the boat-building area. “Hey.” She made eye contact with one of the builders nearest her position, who was sitting and eating bread alone. “What’s up?”

The builder looked surprised at her talking to them. “Just takin’ a break.”

“Right.” Crawly glanced at the boats. “Which one’s yours?”

They pointed to the one nearest them, which was nearly complete, several dozen feet long and painted bright yellow. 

“Looks good,” said Crawly, who had no idea what made a boat any better than another boat unless one was floating and the other was sinking. “I don’t suppose you’d be up for a bit of casual conversation?”

“’Course, if you want.” The builder joined Crawly by the enclosure. 

“How’d you get to be a boat-builder, then?” she asked. 

“My dad’s a carpenter. S’pose I just drifted into it.” 

They didn’t look especially pleased to consider their career choice. Excellent. 

“D’you like it?” Crawly jerked her head toward the boats. “Building these, that is.”

The builder grimaced. “It’s good work,” they said. 

“D’you like it, though?”

“I like painting. And it supports my wife. I’m tryin’ to be a good husband, see.”

Had to ease off a bit. “Care about your wife a lot, then?”

“Oh, yeah. We’ve been married just a few months. She’s brilliant. Bit rude sometimes.” He smiled crookedly. “Love her for it, though.”

“Sounds lovely.” She managed to keep the irony out of her voice. “Does she know you don’t like ship-building?”

He grimaced. “I haven’t told her, no, but I’ll warrant she’s worked it out by now.”

So he _didn’t_ like the job. Of course, she hadn’t thought he did, but he’d admitted it, and that was half the difficulty. 

“She wants to take up farmin’, actually.” The builder didn’t make eye contact. “She grew up on a farm. But it’s for Narmer. The one I’m building, that is.”

“The boat is for the Pharaoh?” Crawly asked. 

She managed not to betray her excitement, but it was a close thing. If the boat was for the Pharaoh, a builder quitting would be a grievous insult, not to mention at least a little blasphemic. Whether blasphemy against different customs counted was its own issue.

“It is. Part of the whole… burial, thing. The Pharaoh wants to make it a tradition.”

“Huh. Seems a bit selfish, if you ask me.”

“What?”

“Such an elaborate burial for one person.” She gestured to the boat the builder’d been working on. “I mean, all that for one man? What’d he do to deserve all that?”

“He unified Egypt,” the builder said. “He’s the Pharaoh, I mean.”

“Does that really make him worthy of all that? A seventy-foot boat painted rich colours? All ’cause he killed a bloke in a red hat? Doesn’t seem fair to me.”

“I guess not. That’s just how things are, though,” the builder said uncertainly.

“Does it have to be? You could just leave, now. Go see your wife. Get a tidy little plot a few miles downriver. A few cattle.”

“What, right now?”

“She’d be surprised, wouldn’t she? Imagine the look on her face.”

The builder seemed to drift off into a reverie for a moment, then shook himself, looking directly at Crawly. “You’re right,” he said.

“Am I?”

“I’m gonna go find my wife, and we’re gonna have a farm. City life’s terrible for children, anyway.”

Crawly blinked. She hadn’t expected it to be quite that easy. “Right. Guess that’s that, then. Have fun?”

“I will!” He shoved the end of his bread in his mouth. “Thank you.” He vaulted the fence and ran past her, presumably headed for his house. 

The other builders seemed to notice his absence, and ran for Crawly. 

She hissed at them, frightening a few into fainting, and snapped her fingers to leave. 


	95. 3072 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

_3072 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia._

Aziraphale handed one of his messengers a cake of grain and meat. The girl lit up and took a bite, then waved as she ran in the opposite direction. He’d had to open the business in order to keep up appearances with Zimri-Lim, and it proved to be a rewarding endeavour. 

Though if he were honest, he could do without the younger messengers and their sticky hands all over his clothing. 

When the girl was out of sight, Aziraphale went up to the door of Zimri-Lim’s house. He’d been doing very well indeed of late, and word on the street was he’d done something particularly admirable this past few days, which was why Aziraphale’d resolved to pay him a visit. 

Zimri-Lim greeted him at the gate, a wide smile on his face. “Asir-fell! May the god Nanna keep you in good health.”

“Likewise. How is your daughter?”

“Getting along very well with her wife. You were right about that one—I think she’s much happier than she would have been otherwise.”

“Indubitably, dear boy. I was hoping we might have a bit of a chat?”

“Of course—come in.”

Zimri-Lim ushered him to the little seating area where they’d sat at the first meeting, some fifteen years ago. Aziraphale had been inside the house by now, as well as any number of places, but he liked this spot quite a lot. It reminded him of how far Zimri-Lim had come.

“What was it you wanted to discuss?” Zimri-Lim asked after they’d sat.

“Ah. I heard something about your actions in the course of your job which sounded, well. Rather admirable. And I was wondering whether they were entirely true.”

“What was it you heard?”

“Oh, things. I heard you’ve come up with a revised programme for the refugees from Egypt.”

“True,” said Zimri-Lim. “You know I’ve been concerned for them since they arrived—is it five years ago now? Must be. War seems a terrible thing, and the existing structures simply weren’t giving them the opportunities we have to offer here.”

“Oh?”

“Ur is a wealthy city,” he said earnestly, “and growing wealthier all the time. I mean—” he gestured to their surroundings, a bit more faded and practical than they’d been when Aziraphale first saw them, but still clearly the residence of a rich man. “I couldn’t stand by as they suffered while we have so much.”

“Hear, hear.” Aziraphale smiled gently. “You’re doing wonderfully.”

Zimri-Lim chuckled. “I certainly hope so.”


	96. 3059 BC - Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to adultery.

_3059 BC. Hell._

Crawly settled into her customary chair in front of Dagon’s desk. “Hi,” she said with as much casualness as she could considering that last time she was here, she’d just been discorporated. “All hail Satan.”

“All hail Satan.” Dagon leaned forward, fingers laced on the desk in front of them. “You’ve been doing a lot recently. In… Sumer, isn’t it.”

“Ngh,” said Crawly. She had been in Egypt for the last fifty-odd years, since getting her new body. But considering that Dagon thought she’d been in Sumer and doing bad work, well. Far be it from she to avoid an opportunity to lie. “Er, yeah. Lots of temptations over there these days.”

“We can tell. Heaven’s getting uneasy.”

“They are?”

Dagon gave her a suspicious look.

“They are! Lots of uneasy… Angels. About these days.”

Dagon nodded. “Exactly. Now. Your report.”

“Right. Report. Erm.” She’d prepared one, but not prepared for lying about where she’d been while doing them. It wouldn’t matter that much though, would it? “Been doing a lot of one-off temptations. Did one tenner. Started off giving up his livelihood for his family and charity, ended up a—”

“Tenner?”

“Ten year. Decade. ’S a lot easier to say than ‘did one temptation that took ten years.’ Right mouthful, that.”

“I see,” said Dagon. “Is this practice of shortening words… common on Earth?”

“Yeah, sure. Very into convenience, humans. Anyway. The man whom I tempted for ten years ended up embezzling grain from the… er… granary,* for his own benefit, treating other humans badly, and generally being a nasty wanker.”

(* He’d technically been embezzling from the Pharaoh’s government, but she couldn’t exactly say that considering there weren’t Pharaohs in Sumer. Whether taking resources from the Pharaoh was strictly a bad deed was another issue entirely.)

“‘Treating other humans badly’ how much?”

“Right. Rude, taking advantage of kindness, er… insulting. Bringing up vulnerabilities to get them to do what he wanted. General bad treatment, really.”

“No violence?” Dagon asked. “You know violence counts for more, Crawly.”

“Too busy inspiring violence in th’other people. Sumerians. Sumerian people. Wanted a change of pace for my long-term project.”

They looked suspicious, but nodded. “I see. Then—”

“Look, Dagon, can I make a suggestion?”

“No.”

“Good. There’s a thing the humans are into these days that I think would make your job a lot easier.”

“Easier?”

“Yeah. ’S called writing. They draw shapes in clay and it means stuff. I’ve been using it to keep track of my temptations. You could too. And piss off a lot of lower Demons while you’re at it, forcing them to learn how.”

Dagon smiled, sharp teeth showing. “Tell me more.”

Crawly snapped her fingers, summoning up her clay tablets. A subtler snap of her fingers under the table hid the most incriminating bits of evidence that she’d been working in Egypt. 

She pushed one across the table to them. “See, it’s complicated and fiddly. You know how much Demons hate fiddly. Imagine Hastur trying to copy this. He’d be miserable.”

“And this means something?” Dagon asked.

“Yeah. Says, ‘tempted celibate baker in Eridu to lust, adultery, and fraud.’ Some bits are more intuitive than others, but if you’re clever—which you are, obviously—it’ll be a breeze.”

Dagon took the tablet, tracing the shapes with one finger. “You think it would cause strife in the ranks?”

“Absolutely. Especially if you have them make three copies, like you required interviews to be repeated three times. In fact, you could skip interviews altogether. It’d be efficient. I could send these down in place of interviews and spend the time I’d be down here doing more temptations.”

“Show me how it works.”


	97. 3051 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for minor character death.

_3051 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_. 

Aziraphale stood on the opposite side of the street from Zimri-Lim’s house. A few years earlier, Zimri-Lim had moved to a different house in a less wealthy part of town and given his old home to a family whose own had been washed away during the Buranuna’s annual flood. 

Why Aziraphale had elected to stand on the opposite side of the street, he wasn’t entirely certain. Zimri-Lim’s family and friends were in the courtyard, performing the traditional burial rites as the sun went down. 

He didn’t feel quite right participating. They’d invited him, on account of his relationship with the one being honoured. But he was an Angel, and it didn’t seem proper for him to implicitly approve of their beliefs by attending. Or to risk doing something terribly wrong and worrying the family on account of his general naïvete in matters of the local traditions. 

Still, he had a leaden sort of feeling, not unlike what he’d experienced when the others died. Not nearly as bad as when Eve did, though, thank goodness. 

Sometimes, even now, something entertaining would happen and he’d think that he would go tell her and Adam once he’d finished what he was doing, only to remember that they were buried far away, in the desert. This was in spite of the fact they had been buried for nearly four hundred years. 

A small child running down the road skidded to a stop in front of him. “Excuse me,” they said, “Mister—or Lady?”

“Either suits,” he said vaguely. Humans’ preoccupation with gender only worsened over time. He’d begun worrying he’d have to pick one someday, which seemed dreadfully arbitrary and dull. He pulled his gaze from the humans across the street and made eye contact with the child. “What can I do for you?”

“Are you okay?”

“Er… in a manner of speaking.”

“What’s wrong?” The child’s dark eyes seemed earnest and caring. He really ought to be encouraging such kindness to strangers. 

Aziraphale sighed. Apparently it was too much to ask to mourn an acquaintance in peace. “I’m rather old and my friends keep dying,” he said.

“Oh,” the child said. “My favourite chicken died last week. It’s really sad when they die, but my mum says we should be happy about when they made us happy.”

“I suppose so,” he said. “It’s very kind of you to ask a stranger if they’re all right, you know.”

“Mum says I have to ask if people are okay when they look sad.”

“She sounds like a wise woman, your mother.”

“I think so. She makes bricks so good that the gaps between them are very small.” The child brought two fingers close together to demonstrate the size of the gaps. 

“She makes bricks so _well_ , my dear. I should hope.”

“The bricks are good. Bricks can’t get sick, so a brick can’t be well. That would be silly.”

“Oh. I suppose you’re right. It would be rather silly, wouldn’t it?” Aziraphale tried for a smile.

“That’s what I said. Anyway, I hope you make another friend soon. My friends helped me be happier when my chicken died.”

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale, though he had no intention of making a friend any time soon. Humans didn’t last nearly long enough to befriend them on purpose. “Now, I believe it’s getting rather late, so I suggest you go find your mum before it’s entirely dark. Unless you can see in the dark.”

The child giggled. “I can’t see in the dark. Nobody can. It would be cool if someone could, though.” They paused, frowning. “If you find someone who can see in the dark,” they said thoughtfully, “you should make friends with them. That way you could stay out late and not get lost going home.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Aziraphale. “Now run along home.”

“Okay.” The child turned and began skipping away. “Have a good night, Mister-Lady! I hope you feel better.”

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale.


	98. 3036 BC - Rural Mesopotamia

_3036 BC. Rural Mesopotamia._

Crawly knocked on the door of the house. He’d finally tracked down some of the descendants of Adam and Eve, and whoo-ee was it easier to tempt them than your standard-issue human. He could order them to do something with a bit of power behind the words and they got this glazed look in their eyes, then did it.

He hadn’t actually used the ability much—seemed a bit like cheating. Not to mention, it didn’t let them exercise their free will, and it seemed silly to’ve given it to them and then not let them use it. Almost like working against himself. 

The door opened and Shem, the second son of whoever the old bloke was, stepped out. “Crawly! I thought you’d gone already.”

“Nah. Just got lost in the fields a bit. Thought I should come say bye before I slithered off.”

“Come in,” said Shem, standing to the side. “Sedeqetelebab just made dinner.”

“Oh, I really can’t—”

“I insist,” said Shem.

Crawly growled, but went inside. Sedeqetelebab, Shem’s wife, was the sort of young woman who promised to mature into one of those matrons whose disappointment was force of nature. He didn’t feel like facing that if he ever encountered them again. Which he probably would, considering their souls actually counted for something in Hell and he didn’t fancy poking through every human in Sumer trying to find the ones who responded to occult persuasion. 

The house was warm and smelled like food and alcohol. He hadn’t bothered to actively sort out what different foods smelled like, since he didn’t eat them anyway, but he could identify onions and some sort of legume. 

Ham, the brother he’d been tempting, gestured a greeting from his spot in the corner, opposite the father. Noah? Noah.  
Crawly hadn’t really interacted with Noah much. He seemed old. Not in appearance, mind. If Crawly ran into him on the street, he’d guess he was around fifty or so. No, he had a sort of aged-ness about him. In his eyes. And Crawly’d heard him refer to things he was reasonably sure happened over two hundred years ago.

And _that_ wasn’t even thinking about the grandparents, who Crawly’d only met once. The grandparents were even older.

Sedeqetelebab, who’d been stirring food of some sort, turned and spotted Crawly. “Oh, hello!”

“Hey,” he said.

“Shem thought you’d gone,” she said. “I knew you wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye though.”

“Eh.” Crawly had the disconcerting feeling he’d done something particularly un-Demonic again. Cowardice was bad, wasn’t it? And he was definitely afraid of Sedeqetelebab being cross with him. At least a little bit.

“Come sit,” Shem said. “Where are you going next?”

“Back to Uruk, probably. Not sure.” Crawly sat. 

“You came from Egypt,” said Emzara, Noah’s wife who had the same disconcerting air of age about her as her husband. “You’d been there for a long time.”

“I’m from Uruk, originally.”

“Don’t look it.”

It was true—at this point, he looked a bit like the humans from Uruk and a bit like the ones from Egypt. Came of spending fifty years someplace and leaving again.

“I was born in Uruk. My grandmother was from Egypt.”

Emzara gave him a look of suspicion, but accepted a bowl of the legume sludge Sedeqetelebab handed her and let the matter drop.

“So you went to live with your grandmother’s family.” Sedeqetelebab handed him a bowl of the same sludge. “Doing what?”

“This and that,” he said. It didn’t smell bad. He just didn’t think he could eat. “Administrative work, mostly. Keeping agricultural records. That sort of thing.”

“Egypt’s all one place these days, isn’t it?” asked Noah, who was now standing behind Crawly.

“Yeah.” Crawly prodded the sludge with his spoon. “All under the Pharaoh.” 

“Has been for sixty-three years now, Dad,” said Shem, a bit reproachfully. 

Noah was _definitely_ older than humans ought to be. Seemed a strange thing to keep a secret, though. 

“Right, right,” said Noah. “My... dad. Used to talk about the two parts of Egypt. All the time. Suppose it got stuck in my head.” He gave a strained laugh.

“Your grandad, you mean,” said Emzara. 

“Of course.”

How normal humans didn’t see anything strange here was a mystery. Then again, it probably helped that they lived way out in the middle of nothing. 

“You lot ever been to the cities?” Crawly asked. After all, if he was stuck, might as well get the humans on edge.

“I was born in Ur,” said Noah.

Emzara swatted him gently, and Shem gave a tense sigh.

Crawly grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sedeqetelebab and Ham are currently tied for my favourite semi-obscure Biblical or extra-Biblical name.


	99. 3033 BC - Rural Mesopotamia

_3033 BC. Rural Mesopotamia._

Aziraphale stepped outside his new house and shielded his eyes against the sun. Two months earlier, he’d received a cryptic instruction from Heaven to take up residence on this particular plain. The Angel who delivered it hadn’t known why, but Aziraphale was nothing if not loyal to the Almighty, so here he was.

He had a herd of sheep and a small plot of plants, to keep up appearances. It had occurred to him that a human of his age moving to a farm by himself was somewhat strange, but with a bit of luck, it wouldn’t be too much trouble with the neighbors. 

He left the house and began walking along the little dirt path which he’d been told led to the home of one of the neighbouring families. Under one arm, he’d been sure to conjure up a basket of pastries—the ones he always liked the smell of back in Ur. 

Before too long, he passed into the fields tended by the other family. A young human seemed to be weeding.

Aziraphale stopped. “Hello.”

The human straightened up and turned to look at him, waving. “Hello! Are you the new neighbour?”

“I think so,” said Aziraphale. “You live here, I take it?”

The human made their way through the field to him, dropping the weeds they’d pulled in a pile with some others, and held out a hand. “Japheth.”

Aziraphale accepted the handshake. The boy’s hands were warm and rough. “Asir-fell. I just moved from Ur.”

“My dad’s from Ur.”

“Oh, really? Perhaps we’ve met.” Ur was a large place, but he met quite a lot of humans in his line of work.

“I doubt it,” said Japheth with a smile. 

Aziraphale shrugged. “All the same, I’d like to meet your family, if you think they’d be amenable? I feel I ought to know the people in the area.”

“I see. Well, I was going to spend a little longer out here, but it can’t hurt to leave it for today.”

Oh dear—he was encouraging young Japheth to shirk his duties, wasn’t he? “I can go myself, thank you. It’s no trouble.”

“I’ll come,” said Japheth more firmly. “We don’t get many people out this way, anyway. Come on.” He began walking along the path.

Aziraphale grimaced, but followed. “Is your family large?”

“Maybe,” said Japheth. “It’s me, my wife Na-eltama-uk, my brothers Shem and Ham, their wives Sedeqetelebab and Adataneses, and my father and mother, Noah and Emzara. And our three grandparents. So, eleven people. If you think that’s large.”

“Pardon me, but Noah? Is his father by any chance named Lameh?”

Japheth stopped in the middle of the road, forcing Aziraphale to stop as well, and turned slowly to look at him. “How,” he said, voice a mite tremulous, “do you know that?”

“Old family… acquaintance,” said Aziraphale. He hadn’t seen them in ages. Why would Heaven want him to meet up with them again now?

“Asir-fell,” said Japheth. “You said your name was Asir-fell.”

“I did, rather.”

Japheth looked surprised. “You’re Aziraphale.”

“I take it you’ve heard of me.”

“Of course I have. What are you doing here?”

“I’m not quite sure, to be honest. I was instructed to move here, but I didn’t know your family had left Ur.”

Japheth began walking again, allowing Aziraphale to follow just behind him. “You’re an Angel?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale.

“And you’ve been here since the Beginning?”

“Yes.”

“And you’d spoken with God?”

“Er, just twice.” And the second wasn’t really the sort of thing he wanted to discuss. He still hadn’t retrieved his sword. Was it too late by now?

“Grandad is going to be very happy to see you.”

“Lameh?”

“Methuselah. We just call him Grandad.”

“Oh, Methuselah is still alive?”

“Yes,” said Japheth, slowing his pace to give him a strange look. 

“Pardon me. Humans die so quickly, you see.”

Japheth raised his eyebrows, then kept walking at his original pace. “He’s still alive. And he gets out more than Lameh does these days. Lameh isn’t well.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. Is Edna with you still?”

“No, she died before I was born.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale had liked Edna. She was energetic, and brought out the best in Methuselah. He always seemed happier after they were married.

“I’m sorry,” said Japheth. “Nearly there, though. I bet they’ll be happy to see you.”


	100. 3015 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied/referenced adultery.

_3015 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia._

“Couldn’t hurt if no one found out though, eh?”

The man Crawly was tempting looked conflicted. “Well, no… but what if they did?”

“They won’t, if you’re good enough at hiding it.”

“That’s not the point,” the man said without much conviction.

“Isn’t it, though?”

The man dropped his head into his hands. “I want to. It’s just… it’s not right, is it?”

“Who’s to say what’s right and wrong? They’re just labels for actions. What matters is when people get hurt. And they won’t, if you play this right.”

“You know what?” the man got to his feet. “I’m going to take a walk. Have fun.”

Crawly sat back and watched as the man walked away. He’d come around before too long. They generally did. Crawly hadn’t even planted the idea this time, just nudged him along a bit.

There was a tug on his robe and he looked down to see a small child watching him. “What d’you want?” he asked.

“Is Daddy okay?” the kid asked.

“Yeah, he’s fine,” Crawly said. “Run on, then.”

“Why do your eyes look like that?”

’Course they’d seen his bloody eyes. Kids never shut up about them. Especially at that size. 

“They’re a mark of my occult nature and eternal damnation,” he said. 

“What’s dannation?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Why not?”

He sighed, turning to face the kid properly. “You _really_ don’t have to worry about it.” They seemed too young to really understand good and evil, so their decisions didn’t count yet.

“I’ll have to someday?”

“Ehh, maybe. Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“Which gods you believe in, I think. Don’t think your lot do eternal damnation quite the same way as mine.”

“Can you play with me?” the kid asked.

Crawly groaned. He couldn’t leave until he’d confirmed that the dad followed through and made the wrong choice, but if he didn’t play with the kid, they’d just keep asking. “Fine. What’re we playing?”

“Farm.” The kid grabbed his hand and pulled him over to the corner of the room where a dozen or so crudely carved toy sheep and chickens sat next to an enclosure made of what looked like reject bricks. 

He sat cross-legged opposite the kid. “Farm. Right. How’s this work, then?”

“We have to make the sheep go inside. It’s almost night. Otherwise, they’ll get scared by the unicorns and lions and run away.”

“Right.”

The kid began moving the sheep into the enclosure one by one. Crawly heaved a sigh and followed suit. 


	101. 3005 BC - Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for emotional abuse (Heaven), references to the Flood, and nausea.

_3005 BC. Heaven_. 

Aziraphale turned to see an Angel he didn’t recognize appear in the hall. “Oh, hello. Er. I was under the impression I was meant to be meeting Gabriel?”

The Angel shook their head. “The Most Holy Archangel Gabriel is occupied at this time. I am Zuriel, and I can answer your questions.”

“I see,” said Aziraphale. “Well. I’m the Principality Aziraphale, assigned to Earth. My most recent assignment was to take up residence near Noah’s family, but—”

“I know these things, Aziraphale. What is your question.”

“Oh, er.” He swallowed. “Noah says you intend to flood the Earth?”

“It has been ordained by the Great Plan.”

“I see.” Of course it was. It wouldn’t be done otherwise.

“Is there a problem, Aziraphale?”

“Not as such,” he said. “Only, I’m not quite clear on the purpose of, well, killing everything?”

“Noah and his family will survive. They are worthy.”

“Quite right.” He was experiencing a rather unpleasant sensation. Human bodies were such bothers. He didn’t need to feel guilty when it was for the greater good, but his body didn’t seem to understand that.

“The Almighty is displeased with the humans,” said Zuriel. “They are too violent, and unfaithful. She has decreed they be swept from the Earth that we might begin again. It was your duty to guide them, Aziraphale.”

“Oh.”

“You see Her wisdom. You will go with Noah and guide his family toward good when the waters recede. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Yes, I understand.”

“Good. Go now, Aziraphale, and do not question the will of the Almighty, lest She find you wicked and unfaithful.”

“I will. I’m sorry.”

“Go.”

He turned and began to descend the stairs from Heaven. The sensations were worse now, churning around and pressing down on him. It was his job to guide the humans toward good. When had he gone so wrong? 

Aziraphale stepped out onto the Earth, and the stairs vanished. He dropped to his knees in the dirt. His palms hurt where his nails cut into them, and his jaw ached from holding tears in. One slipped out anyway, hot and wet and terribly human. 

All those humans. All of them, drowned. Why—

No, he couldn’t ask questions. He was not going to Fall. The humans needed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And on that jolly note... that's millennium one of six done, folks! I'm enthused to see people commenting and kudos'ing and things. Glad to have you along!


	102. 3004 BC - The Ark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for the Flood.

_3004 BC. The Ark, Rural Mesopotamia._

Crawly was uncomfortable and bored. He’d received word from Hell that he was expected to stay with Noah’s lot right before the rains started, and hadn’t been able to sort out a proper spot on the Ark. If he’d had time, he would’ve ingratiated himself properly. Shem would have been temptable. 

Instead, he showed up while the animals were boarding, ready to stow away, and ran straight into Aziraphale. After that, he’d only had just enough time to miracle himself into… wherever this place was. It seemed to be some sort of crate, full of pots, which left just enough room to fit his snake form.

Aziraphale was nearby. Or at least, he assumed it was Aziraphale. The Divine presence felt like Aziraphale, and it’d be strange, assigning another Angel to the Ark when one was already there. 

In fact, Aziraphale was rummaging around. Just like he had been, as far as Crawly could tell, the entire time he was on the Ark. Proper busybody, that Angel. 

“Crawly,” Aziraphale said. 

Crawly squirmed a little deeper into the pottery. 

“I know you’re in here,” he said. “If you come out, I won’t smite you.”

“Convinsssing,” hissed Crawly. He was bored, after all. 

The lid of Crawly’s crate cracked open, and the feeling of Divine presence intensified.

“Oh, there you are,” said Aziraphale. “What exactly are you doing in there?”

“Being crushed by potsss, obviousssly.” Crawly stared resolutely at the side of the crate, trying to affect the bearing of a snake who didn’t mind where he was at all.

One of the pots moved and Crawly relaxed minutely, until a hand picked him up. 

“Oi!” 

The Angel unwound him from the pots and set him gently on the floor.

Crawly switched back to his human body. “I’m pretty bloody certain I didn’t _asssk_ for you to pick me up, Angel.”

“Aziraphale,” the Angel corrected calmly, replacing the pot and then the lid of the crate.

“Don’t go picking people up without their permission.” Crawly stood up and sat on a barrel of some sort, joints cracking in ways he wasn’t entirely sure joints were supposed to crack. “’Sss rude.”

“You looked uncomfortable.” Aziraphale sat down on Crawly’s old crate. “Besides, aren’t you meant to encourage rudeness? Being a Demon and all?”

Crawly gave him his best Demonic glare. “You’re a right bassstard, you know that?”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Aziraphale. “The hissing—is it a snake thing?”

“I ought to bite you.”

“Then I’d find myself compelled to smite you, and that would be unpleasant for us and, well. Everyone else here. We’re at the bottom of the boat, you see.”

Crawly glanced around the room. It was badly lit, full of crates and boxes. Though there did appear to be rather a lot of bats in one corner. “S’pose I can’t very well bite you, then. Don’t like being discorporated.”

“You’ve been discorporated?”

“What, you haven’t?”

“I haven’t,” said Aziraphale, folding his hands in his lap.

“Not yet,” said Crawly in what he hoped was a suitably threatening tone.

“Was that a threat? I rather thought we’d established those to be a bad idea.”

“Nah.”

“Convincing.” Aziraphale mimicked Crawly’s earlier intonation, and if that wasn’t rude, he didn’t know what was.

Still, he couldn’t very well go around getting smote right now. Especially since the Ark sinking would throw off his whole assignment of infiltrating Noah’s lot. 

He took a deep breath. He’d give it a shot, and if it didn’t work out, well, what a way to go, eh? “Suppose we agreed not to do any of that?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Y’know. The smiting bit. Fighting. All that.”

“We are hereditary enemies, Crawly.”

“Yeah, but I’m expected to hang around Noah’s lot for a few more decades at least. That’s nothing, in the scheme of things.”

Aziraphale frowned, apparently considering. 

Strange sort of Angel, considering a Demon’s idea. 

“I suppose it is rather a spectacle. Raises questions.”

“Sets a bad example, too. Even if you don’t do the actual smiting.”

Aziraphale frowned in Crawly’s general direction. Could Angels not see in the dark? 

Either way, Aziraphale was clearly trying to squint suspiciously at him. “Are you tempting me?”

Crawly laughed. At least he was smart. “I mean, yeah. Definitely. What else am I going to do? Flirt? If you don’t agree, then as soon as all this—” He gestured to the general Ark around them— “is over, you’ll discorporate me. ’S not like I’ve got any other options.”

“I suppose that’s true,” said Aziraphale thoughtfully. “I don’t much enjoy smiting.”

“Really? Seemed to like the prospect rather a lot, oh, about a thousand years ago.”

“I hadn’t _done_ it then, had I? Unpleasant business, smiting.”

Aziraphale looked rather stricken at the thought. 

“What about it, then? Until this assignment’s done, no smiting, and I’ll get out of your hair as soon as Hell will let me.”

“You’re not in my hair.”

“It’s a phrase. I’ll go off someplace else. Let you do all your, er. Good. Here.”

“It really wouldn’t do to set such a violent example for the humans,” said Aziraphale thoughtfully.

“Yeah. Not to mention, show them all that you’re an Angel.”

“They know I’m an Angel.”

“They do?” Though it did make sense. Aziraphale was very Angelic, as Angel went. With that odd hair and aura of Divine kindness and all. 

“Some of them do. Japheth, Noah… Methuselah did.”

“But it would show the rest. Adataneses, Ham… Sedeqetable.”

“Sedeqetelebab.”

“Same difference. Point is, they’d _all_ know you’re an Angel if you pulled a stunt like that, and they’d know that Angels were violent.”

“Angels are not violent!”

“Sure. Point stands.”

Aziraphale grimaced, appearing to consider, then nodded decisively. “Very well.”

“Wait, really?”

“No. I won’t encourage violence, even to get rid of a Demon like you.”

“Oh,” said Crawly. He smiled. “That’s all right, then.”


	103. 2992 BC - Rural Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference to the Flood and to familial rejection.

_2992 BC. Rural Mesopotamia_. 

Aziraphale stepped outside his house. The humans were returning from their fields now. He estimated another hour or two before nightfall, though the sun was already low now. He’d finished his blessings and guidance for the day early, but had vague aspirations to bless the hemp crop before the night was over.

It was strange, living with a constant Demonic presence nearby. Twelve years didn’t quickly undo the habits of eight hundred. Still, he was getting better at pinpointing where, exactly, Crawly was.

Now, for example, the Demon was lurking around the side of Aziraphale’s own home. 

“Did you need something?” he asked with a put-upon sigh.

“Not exactly,” said Crawly, stepping out from behind the house to stand at Aziraphale’s left. “Just taking a walk.”

“Behind my house?” 

“Er, yeah. Nice spot, that. Quiet.” 

“Is that all?”

“Can’t a man take a walk around town without arousing suspicion these days?”

“You’re not a man, you’re a Demon.”

Crawly made a face. “I’m man-shaped.”

“Man-shaped Demon.”

“Man-shaped being.”

“Very well.” Aziraphale began walking. “I’m going to do my blessings. You may do what you like.”

“May I really?” Crawly was following him. Bother.

“No.”

“Aw.” 

They passed into the fields. There were quite a lot of those in the area. Came of humans trying to rebuild civilization, it would seem. 

“How’re the blessings, then?”

“As if I’d tell the likes of you.”

“Just trying to make conversation.”

“How unfortunate.”

That stopped Crawly for a moment, allowing Aziraphale to make it a few paces ahead. At this rate, he wouldn’t be able to leave the Demon behind long enough to do his blessing. At least it wasn’t an official assignment. 

“You know, you’re rude, for an Angel.”

“I am thwarting you, there’s a difference. Besides, you don’t know any other Angels.”

“How d’you know that?”

“Ah. If I didn’t, I do now.”

“Bless it.”

Aziraphale stopped in the middle of the field and laced his hands in front of him. Perhaps this warranted a more direct approach. “Are you going to leave me alone?”

“Nope,” said Crawly, smiling at him. His teeth were rather sharper than the typical human’s.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Thanks.”

They stood in silence for a bit, looking out over the carefully maintained rows of plants. Crawly seemed oddly content to just stand there. Probably plotting something nefarious. His eyes were even more unsettling in the golden light before dusk.

“How do you get around?” Aziraphale asked.

“How d’you mean, ‘get around’?”

“With your eyes. Surely the humans notice.”

Crawly hissed slightly. “Oh, they do. Switching genders helps sometimes. Had to leave for a bit when the ones in Uruk sorted it out, though. Got discorporated once, when some drunk ones saw them.”

Aziraphale grimaced. “That sounds unpleasant.”

“It was.”

Wind blew over them, ruffling their robes and curls. Crawly didn’t react—just stood there unmoving. 

“Crawly,” began Aziraphale, then hesitated. It probably wasn’t the sort of thing he’d want to tell an Angel.

“Yeah?” Crawly asked without looking at him.

“What were you doing? That time in Ur?”

“What time in Ur?”

Aziraphale swallowed. “When you were, ah. Imitating statuary?”

Crawly exhaled sharply. “That. Yeah, I wondered if you noticed that.”

“You weren’t exactly subtle.”

“No,” said Crawly, as though the thought hadn’t occurred to him. “Yeah. I’d fallen in with some humans, actually. They decided I wasn’t to be trusted, and that was that. Kicked me out.”

“Quite right, too.” He was a Demon, after all. Not to be trusted. Aziraphale certainly didn’t trust him. 

“Right. ’Course.” Crawly’s voice sounded strained.

Aziraphale swallowed, something rather unpleasant settling into his stomach. “Crawly. What I mean to say is—”

“No, you’ve got the gist of it. Demon.” He chuckled. “Serves me right, doesn’t it?”

“Crawly—”

“See you around, _Angel_.”

Crawly snapped his fingers and vanished, leaving Aziraphale in the field, feeling confused and very much alone. 


	104. 2978 BC - Rural Mesopotamia

_2978 BC. Rural Mesopotamia_.

Crawly slid out of the ground, shifted back to a human shape, and brushed himself off. He wasn’t too far from the human settlement, thank Satan. Hell wasn’t always very good at making sure he ended up back in the right place.

He set off toward the village. It was dusk now, hopefully the same day he left for Hell. The report went over well enough. Dagon was satisfied with the humans’ progress, considering they were the ones hand-picked by God for being virtuous. 

“Crawly,” came a shout, and he turned to see Aziraphale standing a few paces into one of the fields, dressed for work. How odd. 

He turned slowly, affecting disinterest as best he could, which was quite well. “What?” 

“Wait up a tick. I seem to have lost track of the hour.” 

“What for?”

“I can’t see when it gets dark, and the humans don’t like it when there are strange Divine lights.” 

Crawly raised his eyebrows. “And why’m I meant to wait for a whole Angel?”

Aziraphale stopped where he seemed to be trying to pick his way out of the field to glower at Crawly. “It’s nice,” he said petulantly.

“I’m not nice.” Crawly chuckled as Aziraphale’s linen clothes caught on a plant and he attempted to detangle himself. “You look ridiculous. You know that, right?”

Aziraphale dislodged himself from the plant, which shuddered and dropped a few leaves. He stepped over the remaining row and joined Crawly on the path. “I ought to smite you,” he said, without much feeling. 

“Have to explain the big smoking crater in the fields then. Not very Angelic, destroying humans’ food, is it?” Crawly started walking back toward the human village. The fact that an Angel happened to be with him was pure coincidence.

“I suppose not,” said Aziraphale from behind him. “Not after the last harvest.”

Crawly made a noncommittal noise. He hadn’t really bothered to pay much attention to harvests. Not since Famine showed up, anyway. A few centuries back, he did. Humans got all bent out of shape over a few plants gone off, and that was hilarious, but a bad harvest didn’t mean death. Not like it did now.

“You’ve been in Hell, I see?”

Crawly stopped and turned to look at Aziraphale. “Ghh—how exactly do you see that?”

“The stench is all over you,” the Angel said primly. 

“That’s just Hastur.” He turned and started walking again, staring straight ahead. “Yeah, actually—eurgh, this is not good for me to be doing.”

“Isn’t that ideal for you?”

“Not bad. Point is, I’ll be… _in the area_ a bit longer than I expected.”

“What do you mean, _in the area_?”

Blasted Angels had no sense of subtlety. Or at least this one didn’t. Maybe it was just this one. Aziraphale. 

Satan, he knew an Angel by name now, didn’t he?

Ugh. 

“Y’know,” said Crawly, “just… _in the area_. ’Round these parts.” 

“Oh… you mean to say, the humans would still be disturbed… if I were to smite you. For a bit more time.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Be very disturbed. And likely to follow your example, if you catch my drift.” 

Crawly turned around the corner of a field just in time to see Aziraphale shudder visibly. He was so _good_. Seemed a lot of trouble, being good all the time. Not to mention boring. No wonder he seemed so miserable.

“Mustn’t have that, then,” said Aziraphale. “I suppose.”

“I’m in favour, of course,” said Crawly pointedly. 

“Of smiting?”

“No.” He nearly tripped over a wayward root, swore, and snapped his fingers to incinerate it. “Of the ‘following your example’ bit. Very into violence, me. Being a Demon and all.” 

Didn’t hurt to say it to an Angel, of course. Or even most humans. Though they were a sight more likely to take it to mean he was in favour of violence against himself, which he most definitely wasn’t. 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Right. Of course you are.”

In fact, it was probably good—bad—saying it to an Angel. 

Give him a worse reputation, for one. 

Whether or not something about Aziraphale’s expression at the statement made something in his stomach feel a bit funny. 


	105. 2971 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied/referenced domestic abuse and reference to the Flood.

_2971 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_. 

Aziraphale paid the fabric vendor and gathered up his purchase. He’d have to take it to someone who made clothes. They were much easier to come by before the… Before. 

He began making his way through the streets. The cities were coming back now, thank Heaven. Ur, for one. Not nearly the same as it once was, but big enough he could nip in every now and again for something he needed. Some things, one simply couldn’t get on a farm. At least, not without miracles of a sort he didn’t feel quite comfortable performing himself. 

It was rather comforting, watching the humans rebuild. Though he wasn’t sure where the ones in Ur were coming from, considering Noah had only saved the one boatful. Such things were ineffable, it seemed. 

He walked through the outskirts now, past shoddily built houses that were meant to be replaced. The humans did seem to trust one another more these days than they did before. More doors were open, and he could hear bits and pieces of conversation from inside.

In fact, he was rather sure he heard a familiar voice. Which was odd, considering Noah’s family rarely left their village and everyone else was—well. Mustn’t think about that.

“—If you ask me,” the voice said. 

Oh dear, that was Crawly, wasn’t it? A temptation, likely. He probably ought to thwart him. 

Aziraphale stopped just to the side of the house where the voice was coming from. 

“But he’s trying,” a more high-pitched voice said. They sounded close to tears. “I know he is.”

Aziraphale really ought to go in there. 

“What about the kids though, eh? He’s trying, but is it really enough?”

The other voice started crying. 

“Hey, hey,” said Crawly’s voice, more tender than Aziraphale had ever heard it and slightly muffled. “’S going to be all right.”

Aziraphale waited as the conversation went on, and moved into an alley as Crawly convinced the human—a woman, it seemed—to leave her husband. 

Eventually, Crawly stepped out, looking rumpled, and looked around the street. “Aziraphale?” he called. “I know you’re out here.”

Aziraphale stepped out of the alley, looking at the ground. “Sorry,” he said. “I was just passing by and couldn’t help but overhear.”

Crawly raised his eyebrows. “So you waited for an hour in an alley?”

“Oh, hush.”

Crawly just laughed at him. 

“Temptation?” Aziraphale asked, going down the street.

“Yeah,” said Crawly. “Sowing discord in a family. Undermining the man running a business. Diabolical stuff. You wouldn’t appreciate it.”

“No, I don’t suppose I would.”

They walked on in silence. Aziraphale held his bundle of fabric close to his chest, and did his best not to let his thoughts show on his face. They’d been doing that without his say so-lately. 

The trouble was, he was having difficulty seeing what exactly was so Demonic about convincing the woman to leave her husband, who didn’t sound, from what little he’d heard, to be a particularly nice man. It had to be Demonic, obviously, considering Crawly was doing it. Still. 

He did not question the Divine Plan, he did not question the Flood, and he would absolutely not question the choices of a Demon, for goodness’ sake! For all he knew, Crawly’d known where he would be and set up the so-called temptation so Aziraphale would hear it.

Yes, that had to be it. Crawly was toying with tempting him. Well, he would not be swayed. _Or_ let on that he knew Crawly’s plan. He would continue on exactly as he had before, and it would serve Crawly right to have tried to tempt an Angel.


	106. 2958 BC - Rural Mesopotamia

_2958 BC. Rural Mesopotamia._

Crawly laid down in a field, watching the sky. It was summer, and very hot, and he’d already filled his temptation quota for the day. Which, considering his temptation quota was more or less self-imposed, was a quota of zero. He didn’t much feel like working today.

Though it seemed like he might have to work. Aziraphale was nearby, and getting closer. Riling up an Angel was work, wasn’t it? 

“What exactly are you doing down there?” Aziraphale was still outside Crawly’s peripheral vision.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

Aziraphale sighed audibly, and Crawly grinned, turning his head to look at him. 

“I fail to understand what’s so interesting about the sky that you watch it for so long.” Aziraphale sat down some twenty feet off and folded his hands in his lap. 

“It’s only been a few hours.” Crawly looked back at the sky.

“Yes, but you did it outside Eden, too.”

Crawly sat up on his elbows, looking at Aziraphale again. They hadn’t talked about the events after Eden since… well, since that time in Uruk he finally convinced the Angel he didn’t make Cain kill Abel. 

“You saw me doing it then?”

“I knew you did. I didn’t _see_ it.” Aziraphale wasn’t looking at him now, either. He was facing the other direction, in fact. It made sense, of course. If anyone asked, he didn’t even know Crawly was there.

“What happened to them, then?” Crawly asked.

“Who?”

“Adam and Eve.”

Aziraphale froze. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. “They died. Humans do that, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Back there? ”

“No. I buried them outside Ur.”

Crawly sat up all the way. “By yourself?”

“No,” said Aziraphale. “The family was there. Enoch, Methuselah, Lameh… Eve, when it was Adam.”

Crawly made a noise far too sympathetic to be strictly Demonic. But hey, he was ingratiating himself with an Angel, right? Or he could tell Hell that, anyway. If they asked.

“What happened to your sword? In the end?”

Aziraphale made a noise that might’ve been laughter and might’ve been rather more sad than that. “Buried with Adam.”

“You—oh.” 

He left it there? A flaming sword, given to him by God, _personally_ , and he gave it to a human, then didn’t bother take it back when the human died. Adam didn’t need it anymore! Not at all! It was so utterly, infuriatingly sentimental. Bloody Angel, being good like that. Crawly’s throat was all tight. 

“All right, Crawly?”

“Ngk. ’M fine. All bad.” He coughed, trying to regain some semblance of control over his imitation of a body. “You realize that’s completely ridiculous?”

“Oh, do be quiet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 31 December 2020: I wrote up a little supplemental scene which fits between this one and the next, which you can find [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28446618).


	107. 2946 BC - Rural Mesopotamia

_2946 BC. Rural Mesopotamia._

Aziraphale stepped inside Noah’s house, where the inhabitants of the village were gathered. Noah and Emzara were there, as were their children, and a few grandchildren. Some youths from Ur had married in. 

It was rather full, really. Noah had decided at some point that the village ought to eat dinner together periodically. It seemed this was the result. 

He picked his way over a few small children to one of very few open spaces. It happened to be one person away from Crawly, and that person was asleep.

He sat anyway. If Heaven came calling for some reason, they would immediately see that he couldn’t very well smite the Demon in such close quarters. He’d harm one of the humans! 

“Aziraphale,” Crawly said.

“Crawly.” He accepted a cup of some sweet-smelling beverage from Adataneses. She was ever so friendly.

“You don’t drink that?” Crawly asked in what he probably thought was a whisper. It wasn’t, but none of the humans seemed to pick up on it. Handy thing, being among faithful humans. 

“Of course I don’t,” replied Aziraphale in a normal voice. The humans still didn’t respond. “Why, do you?”

“Nah,” said Crawly. “Haven’t bothered trying yet. Not sure if I could, honestly.”

‘Honestly’ indeed. Crawly was infuriatingly unsubtle at times. All part and parcel to being a Demon, he supposed. 

Aziraphale miracled about half of his beverage into a human’s cup. 

“What are you doing here, then?” He gestured to the gathering around them. 

“Shem invites me.” Crawly frowned. “I’ve been coming for about a year now. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen me.”

“You’re not especially noticeable, Crawly. Particularly when you insist on wearing _that_.” He gestured to Crawly’s attire.

“There’s nothing wrong with black.”

“No, but it does rather help you blend in with the shadows. As does your dark hair.”

Crawly blinked at him pointedly.

“Regardless of how distinctive your eyes are, they do not make you noticeable in the dark when they’re the only aspect of your appearance in a shade lighter than dark brown.”

Crawly raised an eyebrow, then settled back against the wall, closing his eyes. “Just you watch. Once this lot works out how to dye stuff black, it’ll be all the rage.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Aziraphale paused. “Are you implying that you just—just summon up clothing from the firmament?”

“I’m saying it. Nothing implied about it.”

“That’s not very sporting of you.”

“Not all of us feel morally compelled to support human commerce, Aziraphale. I’d personally rather wear stuff I like than settle for human-made stuff like that.” He waved a hand vaguely at Aziraphale’s person without opening his eyes. 

Aziraphale opened his mouth to retort, but the human between them opened their eyes, and he shut it again. Wouldn’t do for humans to know they weren’t, now would it?


	108. 2939 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to the Flood.

_2939 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia._

Crawly leaned against the wall of Aziraphale’s house. The edge of Ur had finally crept up on Noah’s little village, with new buildings popping up all the time. As a result, it was less and less odd for him to hang around places he shouldn’t be. People did that in cities.

Aziraphale was inside the house, he knew. What an Angel could be doing in a house by himself was a mystery to Crawly. Getting things ready to distribute to the poor, maybe. 

Still. Crawly’s time in the area was up, and it seemed odd to just leave without clarifying first. Where he was headed, he wasn’t sure. He could go back to Uruk, but that seemed boring. Someplace that hadn’t been Flooded was probably better.

The door to Aziraphale’s house opened, then shut. Out the corner of his eye, Crawly could see the Angel standing outside, watching the street.

“What do you want?” Aziraphale asked, making no other acknowledgement of Crawly’s presence.

“I’m off.” Crawly tilted his head, making a show of studying the building next to Aziraphale’s. “Time’s up. You won’t have to deal with me anymore.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale paused a lot longer than seemed necessary. “I’m… glad to hear it.”

Crawly chuckled. “Yeah. You can get back to all your usual blessings and things.”

“Less thwarting, though,” Aziraphale said.

“Less thwarting,” Crawly agreed. 

“Where are you going? Back to Uruk?”

“Nah. Thought I’d see a bit of the world. Take a break from all the—” he waved a hand, “rebuilding.” He paused. “Gets awfully dull, rebuilding all the time.”

Aziraphale made a sad sort of noise. “It does, doesn’t it? Not to mention the reminders of… well.”

“The Flood,” Crawly supplied. “Yeah. Still seems odd to me that your lot went through with that.”

“It’s not our place to question the Almighty,” said Aziraphale, voice flat.

“It is mine,” Crawly pointed out. He kicked a pebble with his toe, and it skittered out past Aziraphale into the street, where it hit a chicken. 

The chicken squawked.

“Yes, well. You’re a Demon.” Aziraphale paused for a moment. “She didn’t deserve that,” he said grumpily. 

“Who?” Crawly asked. “Eve?”

“No, you fiend. The chicken.”

“It’s a chicken, Aziraphale. And, as you so observantly pointed out, _I’m a Demon_.”

“Oh, hush.”

Crawly smiled, looking up at the sky. It was twilight, a few pink clouds floating past. “Well. I’ll be popping along, then. You’ll be all right without somebody to thwart?”

“I should think so,” Aziraphale said. “Do you really think you ought to be asking questions like that?”

Crawly shrugged. “’S my job. Asking questions.” Not questions like that, probably. Technically. “Anyway.” He pushed off the wall into a properly upright position. “See you.”

Aziraphale made a vague noise of agreement.

Crawly walked out of the alley into the street. He could’ve gone the other way, but didn’t really feel like it. He turned slowly, as though getting his bearings. He made brief eye contact with Aziraphale on the way around, then set off.

Aziraphale, for his part, looked conflicted. It was an expression Crawly saw a lot, in his work. For once, it didn’t give him the rush of a job well-done. 

With a wave of his hand, he knocked over a stack of pots on his way by a more well-to-do house, and thought he could hear Aziraphale’s noise of disapproval. It might have been the wind, though.

Onward and downward, then. Things to do. Most importantly, not befriending an Angel. 


	109. 2931 BC - Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for emotional abuse (Heaven) and references to the Flood.

_2931 BC. Heaven_. 

Aziraphale stood in Heaven, fidgeting. He’d been brought to a private room this time. Gabriel was meant to meet him, which was good, really. He wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to look Zuriel in the eyes. 

With Gabriel, at least, he wasn’t expected to look in _all_ the eyes. 

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel said in a surprisingly grounded voice. “I am glad to see you.”

“Likewise,” said Aziraphale, glancing around. “Erm. Are you quite visible?”

“My mistake.” Gabriel appeared, rather closer to Aziraphale than humans generally stood with one another. 

“Ah. Hello, Gabriel.” Aziraphale took a step away as subtly as he could.

“How is Earth?”

“As well as is to be expected,” said Aziraphale stiffly. “The Flood set them back rather a lot.”

“All part of the Great Plan.” Gabriel smiled broadly. “The humans are recovering?”

“A bit.” Aziraphale swallowed. “Listen, Gabriel. I just… well, the thing is the rain-bow, isn’t it.”

“What about it?”

“It’s just… well. It’s a promise not to ‘drown’ everyone again, isn’t it? That is, that’s what I heard.” He paused. “I suppose what I’m trying to ask is that we don’t kill them all again. Not ever. Armageddon excepted, of course.”

“We can’t promise that, Principality.”

“Ah. Quite… quite right.”

“Glad we sorted that out.” Gabriel smiled again, though the gesture was little comfort. “No trouble from the opposition?”

Oh. Oh, dear. 

Aziraphale swallowed a second time, and nodded. “No trouble. You can check the records. No smitings, no… no trouble.”

Which was trouble. Crawly had given him some annoyance, but kept his temptations in the realm of things quickly reversed or thwarted. And Aziraphale hadn’t smote him at all. Because that would have set a bad example.

And Gabriel, of course, would understand that, if he mentioned it. Which he wouldn’t, because it was the right thing to do and as such did not warrant a report. That was it.

“No Demons?” Gabriel asked.

Drat.

“I did spot one, once or twice.” Or several hundred times over more than sixty years. “He didn’t give me any trouble, so I felt provoking him would cause more harm than good. Stayed out of my territory and all that.” Crawly had never been inside Aziraphale’s house, after all. And that was the only place that truly counted as his ‘territory.’

Gabriel frowned. “Did this Demon see you?”

“Er… I can be very surreptitious, when I wish to be.”

And he could! He simply hadn’t chosen to be, in Crawly’s case.

“Very good, Aziraphale.” Gabriel’s smile returned. “We were worried about you, you know.”

“You… were?”

“Zuriel said they thought you might be doubting the Plan, when they saw you before the Flood. I can see now that you are much better than that. It’s almost funny, Zuriel being so mistaken. I mean, the Principality Aziraphale, Fallen?” He laughed. “It’s hilarious.”

Aziraphale laughed too, though he was more aware of his pulse in his ears. It was automatic, these days. Humans got very worried when he didn’t have one.

Gabriel finished laughing. “Well. Excellent report, Aziraphale. I’m sure you’ll do much better this time around. You will, won’t you, Aziraphale?”

“Rather,” said Aziraphale, and shivered.


	110. 2918 BC - Milos, Aegean Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence in the context of fishing. The violence is against a fish.

_2918 BC. Milos, Aegean Sea_.

Crawly sat on a log, overlooking the sea. At the edge of the water, a group of local humans were gathering spears and things around a boat. Their voices were twisted and warped in the wind, so he couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but they sounded excited.

It was a pleasant change of pace, hearing humans enjoying themselves for once. Best part of leaving Ur behind. After all, happy humans had further down to go, didn’t they?

Still. He did miss Ur, a bit. Not that he’d admit it anywhere other than in the relative safety of his own head. Consciousness. He knew how things worked in Ur, and the humans trusted him. More or less. Aziraphale tried to stop them, but one dowdy Angel was no match for Crawly’s full, concerted attention.

At least when said Angel spent more time tending to random humans in the city than keeping the humans that actually mattered to Heaven and Hell from trusting Crawly. If Aziraphale’d actually _tried_ to keep Noah’s lot from trusting him, properly, it might have gone differently. 

“Crawly,” someone said. “D’you want to come?”

Crawly turned to look. The human was one of the younger ones, who he’d been introduced to but not bothered to learn the name of. They looked excited.

He’d probably best put in some actual work. Ugh. “Where are you going?”

“Fishing.”

Crawly schooled his face into an expression that vaguely resembled not-absolutely-against-the-idea. “Yeah, sure, why not.”  
He could always make things go a bit wrong and watch the humans flail around. 

“Great!” The human turned and began running toward the boat. “Come on, then.”

Crawly followed the human. He hadn’t gone fishing… ever, really. He’d seen humans go fishing, of course. One couldn’t be on Earth for a thousand years straight without ever encountering people fishing. 

Last time he’d been around people fishing wasn’t even all that long ago. Thirty years back, maybe. One of Japheth’s kids had the bright idea of trying it out, and dragged half the village along with. At the time, Crawly’d been trying to get Adataneses, the kid’s mother, to express her bitterness toward Na-eltama-uk. 

Trouble was, Aziraphale was trying to reconcile Adataneses and Na-eltama-uk, and they both ended up spending most of their time miracling and un-miracling things the other did. Ended up with a lot of very confused humans. And a rather wet Angel, which had been hilarious. 

The boat was halfway into the water already when Crawly arrived, being pushed in by a number of humans. The one who’d invited Crawly beckoned, and he dutifully began pushing alongside them.

Finally, the boat entered the water properly and they jumped in. Crawly was handed an oar and he began paddling.* Before terribly long, they were instructed to slow. A few humans stood, holding spears, and began jabbing the water. 

(* Crawly had no idea how to paddle. The humans assumed he knew how because they couldn’t fathom someone of his apparent age _not_ knowing how. For his part, Crawly assumed he knew how, and by force of expectation, successfully assisted. If the boat travelled faster than it should have, that was simply how it was.)

Crawly watched with vague disinterest. He didn’t really care how humans got their food, unless it was to mess with them. And even that was less interesting these days, considering Famine’s activities. Crawly’d decided to leave the last place he stayed—an icy spot in North America—after Famine showed up.

The fish they were attacking were quite large, as fish went. In Crawly’s experience, at any rate. They were at least two meters long, and round in a muscular sort of way. 

A powerful, crescent-shaped tail slapped the water, sending a wave of salty spray over the side of the boat. 

Crawly sputtered. The nerve! And he couldn’t miracle himself dry when he was surrounded by humans. 

Well, if the fish was going to be like that, that was fine by him. It would just have to deal with the consequences of its actions.   
He released the oar with one hand and snapped his fingers subtly. 

A swell rose up, did not disturb the boat, and propelled the offending fish toward the surface. It was struck by a spear, and Crawly grinned. Served it right, splashing him like that. 

With a bit more Demonic assistance, the humans successfully dragged fish into the boat. The added weight caused it to dip alarmingly low in the water, but Crawly trusted the humans to know how much weight they could add without it sinking. The boat did not sink. 


	111. 2908 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to the Flood and minor character death.

_2908 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_. 

Aziraphale knocked at the door of Noah’s house. It opened almost immediately, and Emzara stepped out. She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, Aziraphale. We weren’t expecting you.”

“I’m sorry—is this not a good time?”

“No, no, it’s all right. Come in.”

She stood to the side and let him enter. 

Noah’s house was much the same as it had been for the past seventy-odd years, though Aziraphale hadn’t been inside in thirty or forty. He’d been rather preoccupied with various blessings and things around the city. 

Noah and Emzara, being overall rather virtuous, weren’t generally in need of his guidance. 

“What brings you here?” Noah asked from a seat in the corner. 

Aziraphale crossed the room to sit across from him. Emzara sat beside Noah, taking his hand in hers. They were both rather old now. Noah had barely any hair left, and Emzara’s had faded to white. 

“Aziraphale?”

He shook his head, blinking, then smiled. “Yes, rather. I’m sorry. Erm. I brought some bread.”

Noah laughed, but took the bag of bread when Aziraphale held it out. 

“Are you well, Aziraphale?” Emzara asked.

“Quite, thank you. I just felt I ought to pop in. See how you were.”

“We’re old, but happy enough.” Noah set the bag down on the floor. “Though I have wondered whether you knew where the people in the city came from.”

Aziraphale inhaled sharply, and sat up straighter. “Oh, er. I couldn’t possibly say, really.”

He’d been in a bit of a tizzy lately. Pestilence paid a visit to a family he’d been guiding for the better part of the decade, reversing his work. Nullifying it, really. 

Best not think about that. 

The door opened and Japheth entered. He paused in the doorway. “Aziraphale?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Noah. “Come in.”

Japheth shut the door and joined their little gathering. “Is something wrong?”

“Oh, no,” said Aziraphale. “Just, er. Keeping busy.”

Without Crawly around to keep him on his toes, he found himself looking about the city and thinking far too often. Thinking about things like how much larger Ur was before. Which wouldn’t do, of course. He’d told Gabriel he’d do better this time around. Heaven was counting on him to do his job. Keep the humans from falling into sin. 

Not like last time. 

Goodness, he really needed to stop thinking about that. 

He looked at Japheth properly. “How are the children, dear boy?”


	112. 2903 BC - Huaricanga, Peru

_2903 BC. Huaricanga, Peru._

Crawly walked through the streets of the city. It was nice being in a large group again. It’d been a few decades since he left Ur, and it seemed there weren’t many cities outside the area. He’d avoided Egypt too, in case Aziraphale decided to take a jaunt over. 

Huaricanga, though, was definitely a city. The last time he’d been through this area—seven hundred years ago? Eight?—it had been picking up a bit, but not at nearly this level. Stone monuments, one complete and one half-finished, stood over the city. The nearby farmlands were crossed with a complex canal system. And there were a _lot_ of humans. 

At the moment, he was looking for a particular human—a builder named Orqo Waranka. He was working on the second monument, to the best of Crawly’s knowledge. Though he wasn’t to be at it right now, if Crawly understood the rhythms of the city correctly. 

That was one of the hardest bits of moving around all the time. Humans in different places had different rituals and systems of scheduling things. In some places, it was perfectly acceptable to be out in the middle of the day. In other places, it was cause for suspicion. 

He’d been in Huaricanga for several months now, though, and thought he had a handle on things. 

“Crawly!” someone called. Crawly turned and saw Orqo Waranka waving at him from where he stood with another human by what was, at a guess, one of their homes. 

Crawly joined them, smiling. “I was just looking for you,” he said.

Orqo Waranka laughed. “Well, it’s a good thing I found you.” He gestured to the stranger. “This is Samiyuq.”

Samiyuq gestured a greeting, which Crawly returned. 

“We were just looking at our work from afar,” said Orqo Waranka nod toward the monument in progress. “Samiyuq coordinates us builders.”

“Really?” Crawly looked Samiyuq up and down. They had the air of someone used to giving other people directions, though seemed a good deal less aggressive about it than similar people Crawly’d met. “Doing a fine job, too, by the looks of it. Can’t imagine that’s easy.”

“It’s not,” said Samiyuq. “But I find the rewards outweigh the difficulties.”

“In all my time building, Samiyuq has been the best one to work with,” Orqo Waranka said. “Just the other day, I saw them send one of my fellows home with his pay after he injured his foot and take his position themself.”

_Far_ less aggressive, then. Virtuous, in fact. Well, who was Crawly to turn down a bit of luck? Getting someone in Samiyuq’s position to be a little less forgiving could have fantastic dividends, in terms of general human unfriendliness. And he’d barely have to lift a finger. 

To work, then. 

“Wouldn’t doing that risk your own health?” Crawly asked. “I mean, it seems to me that risking a coordinator like yourself jeopardizes the whole… thing. Project.”

Samiyuq shook their head, frowning. “The risk to myself is negligible.”

Wouldn’t be that easy, then. Good thing Crawly liked a challenge. Sometimes. This one wouldn’t be so bad, anyway. 


	113. 2888 BC - Kish, Mesopotamia

_2888 BC. Kish, Mesopotamia._

Aziraphale rounded the corner of a building and stopped short. “Oh, my goodness.”

A few paces behind him, Japheth sped up. “What is it?” 

“Pardon me. There are quite a lot of humans here,” he said as Japheth drew up beside him.

“Oh yeah,” said Japheth. “That is a lot of humans.”

In the square before them, a few hundred were gathered in a large crowd. A dias built of—was that _wood_?—rose in the middle of the crowd. On top of it, a number of officials stood, dressed in fine linen and jewelry of metal and precious stones. 

“Where did they get wood from?” Aziraphale asked as they neared the crowd.

“I have no idea,” Japheth said. 

“It’s imported,” a nearby human said. “From the north. City called Byblos, I think.”

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale. 

“’Course,” the human said. “My uncle helped construct it.”

“How wonderful.”

Up on the dias, the king—Etana?—was interacting with other humans who, by their mode of dress, looked like priests. At least, Aziraphale assumed he was the king. His clothing looked particularly fine, and he wore rather more jewelry than the rest. He also sported a particularly lush beard.

To be quite honest, Aziraphale wasn’t interested in the political goings-on, but Japheth had insisted. He’d begun seeing Japheth more often as Noah grew increasingly bedridden. 

Before terribly long, the ritual seemed to have ended, and the humans dispersed. Japheth, who’d been to Kish rather more than Aziraphale—or at least more recently—led him through the streets to a different area, where people seemed to be congregating. 

Aziraphale stood on the side by a fountain while Japheth found food and watched the humans. A group at the opposite end square were playing instruments, and had gained a gathering of other humans around them. About the edges, people had food and beverages—platters of barley cakes, fish, fruits, roasted vegetables, and jugs of wine and beer. 

Japheth returned holding a cake which glistened like honey and appeared to be studded with chopped nuts. “What did you think?” 

“Certainly a creative way to symbolize transfer of power.”

Japheth laughed. “That’s one way to look at it. I suppose you’ve seen lots of kings come and go.”

“I can’t say I paid much attention.” 

“Never? Not in… how long have you lived in Ur?”

“Oh, good lord. I suppose—seven hundred and fifty years? Give or take a few decades.”

Japheth began coughing. 

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, remedying the issue. “Really, dear boy, you know what I am.”

Japheth inhaled and wiped a tear from one eye. “Seven hundred years in Ur alone?”

“I did spend a few decades travelling. And a few living with your family, as I’m sure you recall.”

“Doesn’t it get boring?”

“Not at all. I rather think it changes too quickly. I’ve only just become used to the way of things when you decide it’s time to do. it a different way.” He paused. “Though I have been considering a change of scenery sometime soon.”

“Soon?”

“In the next century or two. I hear Egypt is becoming quite the cultural centre, you see.”

“Egypt? That’s far,” said Japheth.

“I walked here from Egypt in the first place,” he said. “From rather farther away, in fact.”

Japheth shook his head, then put the rest of the honey cake in his mouth and licked his fingers. He swallowed before speaking again. “You are a strange one.”

“I am an Angel, dear, not a human. And I believe I’m quite normal, as Angels go.” Perhaps slightly more accustomed to Earth than the rest, but he was certain that if any other Angel stayed on Earth for eleven hundred years, they’d be quite similar. 


	114. 2880 BC - Xích Quỷ, Vietnam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to the Flood.

_2880 BC. Xích Quỷ, Vietnam_.

Crawly sat down to lean against the wall of a potter’s studio. He was in the process of tempting the potter who worked there, and had been, for the past few days. He wasn’t feeling quite up to it today, though. He’d arrived in the area just a few weeks earlier, and wasn’t really familiar with it yet. 

In the street by the studio, a number of kids were playing. It was… comforting, seeing kids. He’d been appreciating it more the past century or so. When the Flood came, none of Noah’s children had had kids yet.

Not that he was meant to care. He was starting to think he cared a bit too much, really. 

One of the kids’ parents came out and called most of them in, leaving one behind. 

The kid watched their friends leave, then turned toward Crawly’s alley. “What are you doing there, mister?”

He could make them go away. They might tell somebody, though, and he wasn’t sure yet if the humans around here would take kindly to a snake ‘man’ hanging around their town. 

“Mister?”

“Just sitting,” he said.

The kid apparently took that as an invitation, because they sat outside the alley, watching him with big, dark eyes. 

“What’re you looking at?” he asked.

“The thing on your face.”

“Oh, right.” Crawly traced his fingers over the snake on his cheekbone. 

“Where’d it come from?”

“It’s just me, leaking out.”

“It’s blood?” The kid looked concerned.

He shook his head. “More like… me. My _being_ , see? Seeped out and got stuck on the skin.” And it was a whole lot more subtle than a whole bloody animal stuck on. Or a body stuck on an animal. Depended which way ’round you wore it.

“Weird,” the kid said. “Does that happen to adults a lot?”

“Nah. Just me. People like me.” 

The kid still looked confused. 

“It’s a… family thing. Sort of. Shows up different for different people. Well. I say people…. The point is, you don’t need to worry about it.”

“Okay. What d’you mean, different?”

“Like… I know one who’s got a frog on his head instead. Or one who’s got white hair, even though he… he’s as young as me.”

“You’re old.”

Crawly chuckled. “True. I am old. But he doesn’t look old enough for white hair.”

“So dad old, not grandpa old.”

“Yeah, sure. But he’s… really not the dad type. I don’t think.”

Probably against some rule or other, being a parent when you were an Angel. Even raising a kid was probably against something. Since humans weren’t a thing when Crawly was still an Angel, he couldn’t be sure, but that seemed like the sort of thing Heaven would be against. Too sentimental or something. 

“Why not?”

Bless it, now he had to explain. “Ngh, er… he’s not quite… he’s just not the type. Not a man, for one. And he’s all about rules.”

“I don’t like rules.”

“Me either,” said Crawly.


	115. 2872 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discorporation and reference to murder.

_2872 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_. 

There was a Demon in Ur, and it wasn’t Crawly. Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure whether it was better or worse that way. After all, though Crawly seemed relatively unlikely to tempt humans to especially bad things, Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure—oh, better not think that direction.

At any rate, given that there was a Demon in the city, of any sort, he was duty-bound to seek them out and compel them to leave. If they cooperated and left easily, so much the better. 

Unfortunately, the Demon seemed to be lurking in the same part of the city where Noah’s family lived, which was less than ideal. Noah’s family, being descendants of Adam and Eve, and faithful to the Almighty at that, were particularly vulnerable to Demonic wiles. And Angelic persuasion, technically, but he’d really rather not be forced to use that. He’d only done it a few times, and it left the humans horribly blank. 

He stopped in front of Ham’s house, and sighed. The Demonic presence did seem to be inside. 

Perhaps he ought to make an impression?

Better not. In case he was wrong. Wouldn’t want to scar any humans like that unnecessarily. 

Instead, he turned and listened at the door. 

“...Don’t want to.” That was Ham’s voice, though it sounded dreadfully vacant. 

“You must,” said a strange voice. If the shards of a broken pot could speak, they’d sound quite similar.

“Don’t want to,” Ham said again.

“You must listen to me,” the Demon said. 

Ham made a strangled noise, but didn’t speak. 

“Excellent,” said the Demon. “You will kill your father, Noah.”

Oh, dear. Aziraphale really ought to smite them. He huffed and began gathering his power. If the Demon were doing nearly anything else, Aziraphale could’ve been lenient, but murder simply wouldn’t do. And, considering the Demon was already mucking about in Ham’s mind and Aziraphale would likely have to mend it up… well, he couldn’t do more damage, could he?

“I will kill… I don’t want to.”

“ _Say it_.”

“I will kill my father Noah.”

Aziraphale pushed the door open. “Terribly sorry to interrupt, but I’m afraid this must stop.”

The Demon turned, looking more than a little shocked. “Who are you?”

“The Principality Aziraphale. I recommend you tell whoever’s in charge of assigning Demons that you are very bad at tempting. Good-bye.”

“Wait—”

Aziraphale waved his hand. Light flashed, cleaving the ceiling of Ham’s home in two, and when it was gone, so was the Demon. A crater smoked in the floor, and a strange light shone on the walls.

Bother. That was probably him.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and concentrated, restoring his human appearance. 

Ham blinked at him. “I will… kill my father Noah?”

“No, dear.” Aziraphale waved a hand. “You have just had a strange case of indigestion. Perhaps it was that last delivery of barley. That looked a bit odd. In any case, whatever you think you may have seen, you did not see. _And_ , when I finish speaking with you, you will fall asleep, and when you wake… you’ll feel as though you’ve just slept rather a lot.” Hopefully that would do the trick. 

Oh— “Do not kill your father. Noah. Don’t kill him. I am done speaking.”

Ham blinked once, twice, then dropped to the ground. Something crunched.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, transporting Ham to bed, then again to restore the house. And a third time to fix whatever it was had been injured when Ham collapsed. Then Aziraphale let himself out, and back into the street. 

That had gone reasonably well. Though his skin still prickled with his Angelic essence trying to escape. Smiting really wasn’t terribly pleasant, for anyone involved. He’d have to recuperate for a day or two before he could trust himself to stay contained in public. 

The Demons seemed to be improving, though, however slow their progress might be. At least this one had the sense to tempt humans susceptible to supernatural persuasion. Demons didn’t seem to have enough subtlety to tempt humans without that sort of thing.

Well, Crawly did. But Crawly was different, since they’d been on Earth so long. And they had a bit of sense when it came to violence, which was convenient. 

A small child pointed at him. “Mama, why is that person glowing?”

Aziraphale waved a hand to clear the glow, and stepped into an alley to transport himself back to his house. Advocating smiting seemed like less of a good idea every time he did it. 


	116. 2861 BC - Shuruppak, Mesopotamia

_2861 BC. Shuruppak, Mesopotamia._

Crawly strolled through the marketplace, tossing an apple in one hand. She couldn’t eat it, of course, but it had a nice sort of weight, and the symbolic value couldn’t be understated. And, if she chucked it at a kid who looked like they needed it and missed, who was going to tell on her?

Throwing fruit at kids was properly cruel and Demonic, anyway. Not her fault snake eyes were bad at aiming. 

Were her eyes bad at aiming?

Who cared, she was the only Demon with them, anyway. And she didn’t need good aim most of the time. And even if something came up that meant she did need it, she could always just miracle whatever it was into place. 

Shuruppak was nice. Well, not nice. Pleasant. Interesting. Smaller than Uruk, and damnedly unfamiliar at that.

Besides, if she went to Uruk, she was more than a little concerned she might find Aziraphale, and she wasn’t up for that just yet. All that hand-wringing over whether or not it was the right thing to do _not_ to smite Crawly. 

Of course it was the bloody right thing to do. 

Especially when Crawly was going out of her way to avoid Aziraphale spotting the nastier stuff she got up to. 

And so what if there were other reasons she didn’t want to see the Angel again just yet? She wasn’t meant to be honest. Not with herself, or anyone else. 

She threw the apple at a passing youth and caught them in the back. They spun around, but of course couldn’t tell who threw it, and picked the apple up out of the dirt instead.

A decade or two in the area without actually _meeting_ the Angel was nothing. Not considering how long they’d been on Earth. And it was reasonable, being worried about a change of heart. She wouldn’t even be worried, if Plagor hadn’t made such a big deal of getting smote. 

It happened, these days. Aziraphale smote people. That was just how it worked. 

And besides, Plagor was a proper arsehole. 

Crawly, on the other hand, knew how Earth worked. Some of the time, anyway. She and Aziraphale had an understanding.

Violence caught on much too easily for an Angel to be implicitly condoning it on the regular. And Crawly wouldn’t be swayed by a little thing like discorporation.

Even if it was a particularly holy one. Plagor would be up and about in a few centuries. She wouldn’t let it stop her either, if it came to that. 


	117. 2848 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

_2848 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_. 

Aziraphale knocked on the door of Japheth’s house. There was a Demon inside, and he was nearly certain it was Crawly. He could hear voices, too, though they trailed off at his knock. 

Japheth opened the door with a smile. “Aziraphale! What brings you here?”

At least the fellow seemed properly lucid. 

“I was just passing through and thought I’d pop in, provided it wasn’t too much trouble.”

“Of course not.” Japheth stood to the side, allowing Aziraphale to enter. “Come in. Crawly’s visiting.”

“Are they now?” Aziraphale spotted Adataneses first, and gave her a polite nod. 

“She is,” said Crawly.

Aziraphale turned to see Crawly sitting against the wall by the door. She was wearing similar clothes to the ones young women in Sumer wore these days, though they were black, as usual. That was odd, come to think of it. The other Demons Aziraphale encountered wore clothes like normal people. 

“Ah. Hello.”

Crawly’s face appeared to try to change expressions, then thought the better of it and returned to its original, blasé stare.

Japheth cleared his throat. “Why don’t you sit down, Aziraphale? Crawly was just telling us about her travels.” 

He really ought to do something about Crawly. It simply wasn’t right, letting a Demon socialize with humans like… well, a human. 

Still. Bad example and all. He’d have to catch her alone sometime. 

He sat. 

“Yeah,” Crawly said. “There’s a lot of other groups of humans around, you know. If you go west a bit, and over the water, they’ve got more cities. Monuments, and things.”

“You mean Egypt?” Aziraphale asked pointedly.

Crawly turned and fixed him with an annoyed glare. “’Course not. You lot know about Egypt already. I wouldn’t bother to tell you about it. No, I mean _over the water_. Big water.”

She was talking about other continents, wasn’t she? The humans weren’t supposed to know about those yet. Not the these humans, at any rate. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Crawly raised an eyebrow. “Oh? I seem to recall you saying, something about the Almight not being upset with the Amer—”

“Now, really,” Aziraphale said quickly. “Better not get into that.”

Japheth and Adataneses were watching them in apparent confusion. Aziraphale looked away. 

Crawly just smiled him, looking far too pleased with herself. 

Aziraphale took a deep breath, released it, and sat up straighter. “Well. It’s _good_ to see you again, Crawly.”

Crawly made a face at that. Excellent. 

He turned back to Japheth and Adataneses. “Yes, this is a very nice little gathering. It’s ever so kind of you to come visit, Crawly.”

Crawly made a strangled, unintelligible noise.

Japheth didn’t seem to notice. “It’s been a long time. I did wonder where you’d gone.”

“Actually,” said Crawly, glancing at the wall, “would you look at how late it’s gotten? I have to go. See you around.”

She stood abruptly and left, shutting the door behind her with rather more force than was necessary. 

Japheth and Adataneses looked bewildered.

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “I don’t think you two need to worry about that.”

He hadn’t meant to put any power behind the words, but their faces went slack.

Bother. 


	118. 2842 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

_2842 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_. 

Aziraphale knocked on the door of the house where he assumed Crawly was staying at the moment. He’d made up his mind. The previous year, Crawly had the audacity to move into Ur, as though she intended to stay permanently.

He wouldn’t stand for it, of course. It was one thing to overlook social visits to see the humans who were in the Flood. It was a very different thing to settle in the city Aziraphale was watching over, and had been for hundreds of years. 

Ur was Aziraphale’s city, and the humans here deserved better than to have Demons around thinking they could do as they pleased. 

The door swung open, revealing a bedraggled-looking Crawly, her long hair loose and flattened on one side. She raised her eyebrows. “Aziraphale. What are you doing here?”

“I need to speak with you.” He glanced down the street. There were far too many humans for him to hold this conversation on the doorstep, especially if—surely it wouldn’t come to that. “Inside,” he added.

Crawly gaped for a minute, then stepped to the side. 

Her home was dim, decorated similarly to the homes of nobility Aziraphale’d seen on his more recent blessings. A mosaic ornamented one wall.

The door closed, and Crawly turned to face him. 

He’d gone and locked himself alone in a room with a Demon, hadn’t he? Perhaps once this was over, he ought to reexamine his decision-making skills.

“What’s this all about, then?” Crawly asked.

“I’ve decided,” began Aziraphale, then stopped.

It seemed awfully rude, just telling her to leave the city. She hadn’t done anything to him, after all. 

“What?” She began pulling at the flat side of her hair, apparently trying to make it symmetrical.

Aziraphale frowned. “Were you… sleeping?”

Crawly scowled. “No. Not sure I can. I was just… lying down for an extended period of time.”

“That sounds like sleeping to me.”

“My eyes were open. I remained lucid. Not sleep, okay?” Crawly paused, eyeing him. “What’re you here for? Not here to smite me for not-sleeping, are you?”

“What? No.” Aziraphale cringed. “Er, that is to say… I’d really rather not smite you.”

Crawly stopped trying to fix her hair. “I don’t want you to smite me either. I mean, wouldn’t that inspire violence?”

“We are indoors.”

Crawly’s expression really was not conducive to getting this done. It wasn’t fair, Hell getting such realistic human bodies. Then again, Crawly’s was the most convincing he’d seen… 

He could just concentrate on the eyes, couldn’t he?

“I’m afraid this is my city, Crawly,” he said. His voice stayed blessedly steady. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Crawly’s jaw clenched. “Is that all.”

“Yes. If you leave, there needn’t be any… trouble.”

“ _Trouble_.” Crawly snorted. “Yeah, all right. I’ll be off, then.”

“I don’t mean—”

“I’m sure you don’t. I’m just a Demon. I’ll go someplace else. America, maybe. Can’t corrupt _your city_ on the other side of an ocean, can I?”

Crawly snapped her fingers and vanished. 

Aziraphale blinked. He hadn’t expected Crawly to leave quite that easily. Still, she’d saved both of them a lot of unpleasantness. An Angel and a Demon living in the same city seemed a bad idea.

Either way, concentrating on the eyes hadn’t helped, however Demonic they might be. 


	119. 2832 BC - White Mountains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for depressive behavior.

_2832 BC. White Mountains, North America_.

Crawly lay in the dirt and stared up at the sky. The air was thin this high up, and the sky bright blue. Objectively, this area was beautiful. 

She’d been laying in the dirt for rather longer than one probably ought to. Her clothes should have faded by now, but she’d made it clear they weren’t allowed to do that. And she was a bit dusty. 

To her left, a very, very young tree was growing. She’d planted it before laying down. Tenacious little plant, though. Seemed to be doing its best. 

Maybe she should stick to plants. Nice and simple. Couldn’t talk, for one. Didn’t make sad faces at you while they threatened to discorporate you even though they were one doing the threatening.

Trouble was, she couldn’t tempt a plant. There wouldn’t be any point to it, since plants didn’t have a concept of good and evil in the first place, and no mouths to eat an apple even if she’d wanted them to. 

That really had been a good idea, hadn’t it? Bad idea. It was an idea she was glad to have had. Loads more interesting than two humans running about a garden having children with no stakes at all. It added complexity, was the thing. 

A bird pecked at Crawly’s elbow, and she growled at it to leave. When it didn’t, she moved a hand for the first time in what was probably a few days if not weeks, and snapped her fingers. The bird vanished with a disgruntled chirp, and she lowered her hand back into the dirt. 

She’d have to go back to tempting eventually. Track down some humans and get them to do something Hell considered bad. Make them sleep too much, or something. 

Sleep sounded like an excellent thing. She was beginning to wonder if it was possible for her. She’d been awake in the dirt for over a year now, after all. Seemed that being unconscious for it would be a lot less trouble. 

Couldn’t watch the little tree grow, though, if she was asleep. She’d decided sometime in the first few months that it should have a name. She hadn’t picked one. Past Crawly was unhelpful like that. 

The trees around here had a strange sense of age. She couldn’t work out why they felt like that; they just did.

It was probably ineffable.

Crawly laughed quietly, the sound loud across the mountainside.

Adam and Eve lived a long time, didn’t they? She didn’t know them when they were old, though. The oldest human she’d met was probably… Methuselah? That time he tempted Ham, however many decades before the Flood. 

He’d been really very old, Methuselah. For a human. She couldn’t very well call a tree her own name. Or any other Demon’s. 

She only knew one Angel’s name, and she wasn’t about to call it Aziraphale. 

Though naming such a young tree after an old being seemed a bit ironic. Lot of pressure to put on a tree.

Probably ought to do it, then. 

“You’re named Methuselah now,” she said to the tree. “S’posed to be old. Do that for me, okay?”

The tree didn’t respond.

Of course it didn’t. It was a bloody tree. And even if trees _could_ talk, this one would be too young. 

If trees could talk, would they develop language skills over time like humans did?

Satan, she was being ridiculous.

She closed her eyes, and slept. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my imagination, this is the actual Methuselah tree in California, which according to [Wikipedia](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Methuselah_\(tree\)), seeded in 2833 BC.


	120. 2818 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

_2818 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_. 

“Is that all?” Japheth asked, securing Aziraphale’s belongings to the back of a donkey. 

“I rather hope so.” Aziraphale looked back into his house. It was empty. Of course, it had been virtually empty to begin with. He didn’t have many material things, being an Angel. The poor donkey was virtually unnecessary, but did help keep up appearances.

“Good.” Japheth gave the donkey a pat and went to stand next to Aziraphale at the door of his house. “Ready to go?”

“Oh, I doubt I’ll ever be properly ready,” said Aziraphale, turning away from the doorway. “Still, I rather think, under your guidance, and your family’s, Ur will continue quite well without me.”

Japheth smiled. “I don’t think we’ll rival the good influence of an Angel.”

“I suppose not. Still. I’ve been here for a very long time indeed. And all of you were chosen,” he said with a significant look at the sky, “to start the humans up again. I trust Her to choose well. And really, it’s not fair to the Egyptians for me to stay here much longer.”

Japheth shut the door and turned to look out at the street. “I hope they know how blessed they are to have you around.”

“They will be blessed, regardless of whether or not they know it,” said Aziraphale. “Just as dear Adataneses is blessed on occasion, though she doesn’t know that I’m an Angel.”

“I was trying to make a joke,” Japheth said.

“Ah. Sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

“I’m sorry she couldn’t join us,” Aziraphale said. “I imagine young Gomer and Magog would enjoy seeing the donkey.”

Japheth laughed. “I think they would, too. Though it would have taken much longer. And, as you pointed out, then you’d be pretending to be Aziraphale, the strange relative who doesn’t age.”

Aziraphale grimaced. “The ruse is becoming more difficult to keep up, yes.” Even among humans where the grandparents were over five hundred years old, it was difficult to convince them he was normal when he hadn’t aged visibly in two hundred years. 

Particularly considering his white hair. The last time he saw Sedeqetelebab, she told him she’d expected him to die the previous decade. Which was a difficult comment to respond to, no matter how one looked at it. 

“Do you know if you’ll come back?” Japheth asked. 

“I’ll stay a century or two and reconsider, I think,” said Aziraphale. 

Japheth nodded, a strange expression on his face. “I might be gone when you get back.”

“I’m aware,” said Aziraphale gently. He was rather hoping to miss the aging-and-dying-over-the-course-of-many-excruciating-decades bit this time around. It was hard enough watching poor Noah, who’d been laid up at home for the past ten years. 

“I see,” said Japheth, sounding insulted. “I didn’t realize you wanted to get rid of me.”

“Of course I don’t want to get rid of you,” Aziraphale huffed. “I just don’t particularly enjoy watching humans die.”

“Oh,” said Japheth. 

“I had quite enough of that last millennium, thank you very much. Adam and Eve and Seth and… well. Your ancestors, in general. It was not pleasant.” Japheth’s generation were already solidly middle-aged. His beard was turning white. 

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to suggest that you don’t care.”

“I care,” Aziraphale said shortly. “I am an Angel. I care about everyone. I care in particular for your family. Now.” He took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I should leave while there’s still light. I shall miss you terribly.”

Japheth grasped his hand. “I will as well.”

“Give my love to Adataneses,” Aziraphale added. “And the children. And your brothers, and their families. And—”

“Noah and Emzara,” Japheth said. “I know, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale took the donkey’s leading rope and stepped into the street. “Thank you. Good-bye, Japheth.”

“Good-bye, Aziraphale.”


	121. 2806 BC - Shandong, North China

_2806 BC. Shandong, North China_.

Crawly lowered her hand from snapping her fingers. She swayed a bit in a warm wind, and blinked once. She still had dust in her eyes. Seemed like sleeping for… however long she’d slept, got one pretty dirty. 

That was new—she had no idea when it was. It could be a hundred years later and she wouldn’t know. It had been a few years, at least, judging by all the dirt, dust, and… other things that had accumulated. And no way of knowing, really. Without meeting someone she’d met before. Which she couldn’t do, because that would require going back to Sumer, and _that_ would risk discorporation. 

It probably wasn’t more than sixty years or so. Otherwise Hell would’ve tracked her down. 

Right, Hell. She needed to get on the tempting, even if it wasn’t time for a review. And she’d have to pop back to Sumer to pick up a few tablets at some point. 

Dagon had finally taken up writing, and they’d done it with a sinister enthusiasm that worried Crawly rather more than she’d like to admit.

Before all that, though, she had to get cleaned up. She’d tried to miracle herself clean, but a lot of it was so insidious, she hadn’t been able to imagine it away. A nice creek or lake would do. River. Pond. Even an ocean might be all right, provided she miracled up some fresh water to wash the salt off after.

She could hear water… somewhere. 

And humans, too. 

She was in a forest, now that she paid attention. Lots of trees and things. A lot more trees than the forest she was in before, anyway. 

It had been a pretty sparse forest, as forests went. Not much forest in that forest. The forest was light on forests. 

She was still half-asleep, wasn’t she?

Bless it. 

She hadn’t even thought she _could_ sleep, so it was a bit of a shock waking up. Still. Good to know. Next time a human she was tempting decided murder was a good idea, she had a recourse. Provided she woke up in time to avoid Hell deciding murder was a good idea, and to use it on her.

Anyway. Bath, then a temptation, then to work out how to ask Dagon what year it was without letting them know she’d slept several of them away. 

No problem, right? 


	122. 2797 BC - Thinis, Egypt

_2797 BC. Thinis, Egypt_. 

Aziraphale stood before a merchant’s warehouse. It was hot out, and he’d really prefer to be indoors, but he was having some difficulty going inside. The trouble was, he’d been instructed by Heaven to adopt a more human persona while he was in Egypt, and the primary way he’d thought of to do that was to take up work somewhere. 

Which brought him here. One of his human acquaintances recommended the place, saying it belonged to one of the most respected merchants in Thinis. Apparently, they were looking for someone to conduct things a bit. 

He squared his shoulders. He could do this. Heaven told him to do it, so it obviously couldn’t be _bad_ , regardless of his previously held opinions of commerce. 

With that, he strode inside, and nearly ran into someone. 

“Oh,” he stepped back, wringing his hands. “I’m so terribly sorry. Are you all right?”

The human caught themself, and straightened up. “I think so. Who are you, exactly?”

“Asir-fell. Someone—er, a friend told me to ask here about a job.”

“You from Sumer? Ur?”

“Yes, that’s right.” It had only been twenty years, and his mannerisms and dress still marked him as being from Ur. Though of course he wasn’t _from_ Ur, he just happened to have spent more time there than any human alive, and adopted certain things in order to blend it. 

“May the god Nanna keep you in good health,” the human said with a wry smile. “That’s what you say over there, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” said Aziraphale, who’d never said it unless absolutely necessary. “I don’t suppose you could point me toward the person in charge of dispensing jobs?”

“Hiring,” the human said. “It’s called hiring. And yeah, I can.”

“Thank you ever so much,” said Aziraphale. “I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a tizzy.”

“I’m Harkhuf,” the human said. “I own this warehouse.”

Oh, dear. Aziraphale swallowed and tried not to show his dismay. “Ah.” He smiled. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Harkhuf.”

Harkhuf laughed. “Not expecting that, eh?”

“Not specifically,” said Aziraphale. “I’m rather new to… jobs.”

Harkhuf raised an eyebrow. “A man of your age?”

“Well, I’m not exactly—” he paused. ‘Not a man’ didn’t go over quite as well here as in Ur. Not badly, per se, just not what he wanted to deal with at the moment. “I ran a farm, back in Ur. I’m new to employment.”

“I see.” Harkhuf didn’t look especially convinced. “Well. Why should I hire you?”

“Oh, er—” He’d prepared this. He just had to retrieve it, and it would all be tickety-boo. “I have an excellent memory. I’m well-acquainted with Sumerian trade and all that, and I’ve travelled a bit outside Sumer and Egypt.” So what if the travel was a few centuries ago? Harkhuf probably wouldn’t believe him anyway, even if he said so. “I’m quite strong, as well. Fit. Etcetera.” Supernaturally so, in fact.

Harkhuf looked skeptical. “Really?”

“Very strong,” Aziraphale amended.

“Show me.”

He glanced around the warehouse. Humans were running everywhere, carrying baskets and bags and jugs of this and that. To his left sat a very large jar, marked with a symbol he believed represented wine. 

Not that he could read. Writing was still suspect, in his opinion. Without a proper statement from Heaven, it seemed to invite quite a lot of dishonesty. And, he’d noted more recently, class stratification. 

He walked over to the jar. “What’s in here?”

“Wine,” Harkhuf said. 

Aziraphale squatted down, bracing his arms around the base of the jar and lifted it up with an affected grunt and what he hoped was an expression of exertion. He walked a few meters past Harkhuf and set it down again. 

When he turned around, Harkhuf was watching him with an expression of surprise and what he hoped wasn’t awe. Hopefully, he was merely impressed.

“Only Teti can lift that alone,” Harkhuf said. “He’s my strongest worker. It normally takes two or three men to move it.”

Fiddlesticks. He hadn’t meant to do something unusual. Still, no matter. All humans had something a bit odd about them, didn’t they? And it would secure the job.

“Farm work,” said Aziraphale vaguely.

“I’ll say,” said Harkhuf. “You don’t look it, but… there it is,” he said, gesturing between the jar and its previous location. “Asir-fell, was it?”

“The very same.”

“You’re hired.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Aziraphale, and smiled. 


	123. 2794 BC - Naxos, Aegean Sea

_2794 BC. Naxos, Aegean Sea_.

Crawly sat cross-legged on the ground, watching a musician play. She’d heard about music the last time she was in this general area, however many decades back that was. At her last report to Hell, she’d managed to work out how long she slept. That didn’t mean she was good at keeping track of time, though. 

The local humans sat around to her. The one directly to her right was watching the musician with glazed eyes. She should probably move before they fell asleep and keeled over on her. 

Or, she could poke them. 

Waking humans up was funny. They got so annoyed over it, even though they were very, very good at falling asleep. Most of them anyway.

Entochus, the human Crawly was supposedly tempting, sat off to the side of the listening humans. She probably ought to be convincing him to do evil, but didn’t feel like making the effort at the moment. He seemed engrossed in his work, too. Carving the musician’s likeness out of white stone. 

Crawly wasn’t sure how she felt about sculptures. Seemed an awful lot of work to have a little, stiff version of whatever it was meant to depict. Though they were certainly beautiful once they were finished. 

She could imagine getting one done if she settled down in one place for a while again. Something profound. A reference to the triumph of Hell, or something like that. Though it would have to be tasteful enough not to worry any humans too much. 

Or, really, she could just get one depicting something aesthetically pleasing. A flower, maybe. Particularly symmetrical animal.

Either way, whatever this stone was was out of the question. Much too… white. She wasn’t especially fond of white. Seemed very unforgiving and impersonal. Or maybe she just associated it with Heaven and Angels, whose guts she hated. That could be it. 


	124. 2781 BC - Thinis, Egypt

_2781 BC. Thinis, Egypt_. 

“Come in, Asir-fell,” called Harkhuf from his office. 

One of the younger workers had summoned Aziraphale to Harkhuf’s office from his work moving bags of grain. He walked through the door and went to stand in front of Harkhuf, who was looking over something written down.

“Ah, hello.” Harkhuf pushed the notes aside and leaned forward over his work table to look directly at Aziraphale. “How have you been?”

“Well, I should think.”

“No injuries, complaints—?”

“No.”

Harkhuf nodded slowly. “I see. That’s good. I imagine you know why I’m asking?”

“I’m afraid not.” Aziraphale paused. “Does it have to do with the cattle count approaching?”

Harkhuf laughed, though his expression still seemed confused. “No, it doesn’t. You’ve worked here a long time, Asir-fell. I’m asking after you because… well, I’m concerned.”

“Oh, that’s really not necessary,” Aziraphale said quickly. “I’m perfectly happy to continue working here for the foreseeable future. You’re a very kind employer.”

“That’s not what I’m concerned about.” He paused, appearing conflicted. “Asir-fell, you’re getting old.”

It took all of Aziraphale’s twelve hundred years of practice pretending to be human to avoid laughing at that. He was exactly the same as he was when Harkhuf hired him. Instead of saying as much, however, he tried to appear a bit sad. “Oh, that.”

“Yes, that. Your job here consists of lugging around heavy things, but it’s been more than fifteen years. Teti lasted twelve. You’re going to have to find a new job eventually.”

“Is that… is that all?” Aziraphale asked in a small voice. He’d have to find a new position. 

“I’m not firing you.” Harkhuf sounded vaguely amused. “You’re an excellent worker. I just don’t want to have to let you go when you’re too old to do all the carrying.”

“Oh. I’m glad to hear it,” said Aziraphale.

“I think you should learn to read and write,” said Harkhuf.

“That’s out of the question, I’m afraid.”

Harkhuf blinked, then leaned back slowly. “Why?”

“I simply… don’t think that would be a good idea.” 

“You’re smart, Asir-fell. I’m sure you could manage it. And Kagemni will have to retire soon. You could take his place.”

“Thank you, but I must insist. I will not learn to read.” Learning to read specifically for commerce was even worse!

Harkhuf sighed. “Will you at least think about it? I’d hate to see someone as good as you be out of work in their old age.”

“Very well,” said Aziraphale, though he had no intention of thinking about it. 


	125. 2770 BC - Wiltshire, England

_2770 BC. Wiltshire, England_.

Crawly stumbled over a lump of sod. “Hey, not that I’m not excited and all, but where exactly are we going?”

“To the circles,” Cyneburg said excitedly. “They’re amazing.”

“Right,” said Crawly. She’d agreed to let Cyneburg show her around in hopes of tempting her a bit, but she hadn’t let Crawly get a word in edgewise since. Unfortunate side-effects of deciding to tempt the most friendly, energetic girl in the tribe. “What are the circles?”

“You’ll see. They’re amazing.” Cyneburg stopped and turned to look back at Crawly. “What’s taking you so long?”

“I’m not quite used to… grass,” Crawly said. Which was true. She was used to dust and dirt and scrub. “Is there more walking?” 

“Yes.” Cyneburg turned around and began running again, nearly hitting Crawly in the face with a plait. “It was built a long time ago.”

“How long is a long time?”

“A long time! Dozens and dozens of years. Maybe hundreds. My gran always said it was even more impressive when she was a little girl. One of my ancestors was buried there. Come on.”

“I’m coming,” said Crawly, who was in fact slowing down deliberately. In the week or two since Crawly arrived, Cyneburg had proven herself remarkably difficult to drive to frustration. And Crawly had tried.* Still, didn’t hurt to _keep_ trying, did it?

(* One incident in particular had actually been more frustrating for Crawly than it had been, as far as she could tell, for Cyneburg. She’d spent three hours making increasingly obnoxious noises and in return was offered a cough remedy, a piece of fabric, some wine, and worst of all, a religious token. After that, Crawly stormed out and spent two hours in the wilderness shouting at an unfortunate mushroom.)

Cyneburg stopped and turned around again, bouncing up and down like some kind of small animal. “You’re going to love it. I bet they don’t have anything like it where you’re from. Where are you from, again? I know you said south, but _where_ to the south is my question. Are you from the continent? I bet you’re from the continent. Is there farther south than the continent? That would be odd, if there were more south than the continent. Do you think—”

“There’s farther south than the continent,” Crawly said, slowing down even more. 

“Woah. That’s very cool. Do they have sheep south of the continent? That’s where you’re from, then, isn’t it?”

“I’m from Hell,” Crawly muttered under her breath.

“What?” asked Cyneburg. “I didn’t catch that.”

“I’m just… swell.”

“Oh good! I’m glad to hear it. Come on. Just over this ridge, and you’ll be able to see it. Are you all right? You look angry. Are you angry? You get angry a lot, don’t you? My gran says some people are born frowning and they just stay that way forever and ever. Were you born frowning?”

“No, I wasn’t born frowning. Are we almost there?”

Cyneburg nodded, and without asking, grabbed Crawly’s hand and started tugging her along. “Almost! You’ll see. It’s very good.”

“Oi, let go!”

Cyneburg pulled her to the top of the ridge and let go of her arm. “See? It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

Below, Crawly could see a large circle made of a grassy bank and ditch, with a ring of half-rotted wood posts inside, and another strange wood structure inside that. The circle was big, to be sure. And it probably took a fair bit of work. But… “That’s it?” 

Cyneburg nodded enthusiastically. “That’s it! Isn’t it amazing?”

“Sure,” said Crawly. In an underwhelming sort of way. If she squinted. “What’s it called?”

“The circles.”

“Ehn.” She paused, pointing to one of the posts. “Is that one falling over?”

Cyneburg frowned, cocking her head, then nodded. “It sure is.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to make this sort of thing out of stone? ’S a lot sturdier, stone.”

“Ooh, good point. It’s done now, though.”

“Right. Okay. Can we go back now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we've made it to England! Not going to stick around for a very long time yet, though. 
> 
> The circles are intended to be an earlier incarnation of Stonehenge, built around 3000 BC, before it was... stone. Unfortunately for Cyneburg, Crowley's seen civilizations with slightly more impressive monuments by now, so a few 200-year-old posts in the ground don't cut it.


	126. 2762 BC - Thinis, Egypt

_2762 BC. Thinis, Egypt._

Aziraphale set down a bag of onions and straightened back up, sighing. He wasn’t particularly tired, but the appearance of exertion, he’d found, put the humans at ease. He’d had to stop carrying the heaviest objects lately, which was frustrating at best, but it had stopped the odd questions about his youth. 

“Asir-fell?” One of the younger workers—Ankherfenedjef?— stood at his elbow, looking nervous. “Harkhuf wants to see you.”

“Does he now?” Aziraphale dusted his hands off. “Well, then. Where is he?”

“In the record room, Asir-fell.”

“I’ll go at once. Thank you for alerting me, my dear.”

Ankherfenedjef returned to his task.

Aziraphale went to the records room and knocked at the door. Voices inside stopped, and Harkhuf opened it. “Ah, Aziraphale. Good. Come in.” He stepped aside.

Aziraphale entered the room. A well-dressed young man sat atop a cask of wine, looking vaguely smug. He resembled Harkhuf, slightly.

“This is my son,” Harkhuf said. “Neferkau. He’s taking over the business starting today.”

“I see,” said Aziraphale. He’d heard of the boy, of course. At length. Last he heard, he’d been off in Memphis doing who knew what. 

“Son, this is Asir-fell. He’s my right hand. Been with me for thirty-five years.”

“Thirty-five?” Neferkau looked him up and down. “You don’t look like you’ve been working for thirty-five years.”

Bother. Aziraphale tried to smile. “I assure you, I have.”

“All right, then.” Neferkau didn’t look convinced. “What makes you the best, exactly?”

“I was quite strong in my younger days,” said Aziraphale. It was technically true, even. It just happened to omit the fact that he was just as strong now. 

“Asir-fell could lift a cask of wine by himself,” Harkhuf said.

“Hmm. Can he read?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, and released it. Young people these days. “No, I can’t read.”

“What? Father, why can’t your right hand man read? That’s preposterous.”

“Reading isn’t everything,” Harkhuf said sternly. “Asir-fell is a good man.”

Neferkau snorted and turned to Aziraphale. “My father is horribly old-fashioned. If you’re to work with me, at your age, you must learn to read.”

“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale said. 

Neferkau recoiled slightly. “Why not?”

“It’s out of the question.”

Neferkau looked at Harkhuf again. “Father, really, _this_ is your right hand?”

Harkhuf opened his mouth to speak.

Aziraphale raised a hand to stop him. “Thank you, dear boy, but I feel I ought to handle this on my own.” He looked directly at Neferkau. “Really, I’d have thought you’d have some manners. Now then. I absolutely will not learn to read, and since you don’t seem to be able to respect that, I’m afraid I must tender my resignation. Effective immediately.”

Neferkau gaped at him. 

Aziraphale looked at Harkhuf. “I have enjoyed working with you very much. I trust retirement will suit you.” The latter statement he imbued with a bit of divine weight. “Good day, gentlemen.”

Aziraphale left. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I'm totally honest, I'm not sure writing was ubiquitous enough at the time to merit this sort of reaction. Still, maybe Aziraphale just radiates 'literate.'


	127. 2748 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to murder.

_2748 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia_.

Crawly shut the door of her new house and turned to examine the inside. She’d bought it from a merchant who was moving to Eridu for a few bars of metal she acquired during her last temptation. It was strange, having a house again.

She was confident it would work out well enough. After all, she’d stayed in Uruk for hundreds of years while Aziraphale was in Ur, and didn’t have any trouble. Well, she’d had some trouble, but Aziraphale still thought she was responsible for Abel’s death at the time, so it didn’t really count. 

Hopping around wasn’t doing it for her right now. A decade or less in each place wasn’t nearly enough time to settle in and watch temptations unfold. Technically, she could’ve stopped someplace else, but checking in on Uruk seemed the thing to do.

If she weren’t a Demon and so not really allowed the concept, she’d say Uruk was her home, but she was, so she didn’t.

A knock sounded at the door and she turned. “What?”

“I’m from next door. I saw someone moved in, and wanted to say hi,” a deep voice said.

She scowled and opened the door. “Hi.”

“Hi.” A human stood there, holding a bowl of what looked like nuts. “I’m Zunan. Mind if I come in?”

Crawly didn’t growl at him. She wanted to, but she didn’t. She needed to meet humans for temptations, after all. Probably shouldn’t go scaring them off and starting rumours on her first day back in town. “Sure,” she said, and stood to the side. 

“Thank you.” Zunan swept in and set the bowl of nuts on the table. “What’s your name?”

“Crawly,” she said. 

“May the gods Inanna and Anu keep you in good health,” he said pleasantly. “What brings you here?”

“Thought I’d stay put for a bit.”

“You travel a lot?”

She shrugged. “A bit. Why’re you here?”

“I was born here,” he said.

“What, in this building?”

“No, in Uruk.”

“Not _that_ , I mean why are you here.” She gestured around at the room. “In my house.”

“Ah,” said Zunan. “You should’ve specified.”

Crawly sighed. She was probably meant to encourage that sort of behaviour, wasn’t she? Ugh.

He chuckled. “Is everyone where you’re from that uptight?”

“I’m not ‘uptight,’” she said. “Not in the slightest.”

“Is that why you’re dressed like my grandmother?”

She looked down at herself. She’d dressed as she did when she last left Sumer, and hadn’t had time to study what people wore nowadays yet. She looked back at Zunan again, who looked amused. Blasted humans. “This is the height of fashion,” she lied.

“Ninety years ago, maybe.” He pulled a nut out of the bowl he’d brought and crunched down on it.

“It is where I’m from.”

“Oh, and where’s that?” He spoke with his mouth full. 

She did growl now. Just a little bit. “None of your business. Anyway, why bring those over if you’re just going to eat them?”

He picked another out. “They taste better with a change of scene?”

“Are you trying to be an arse, or is it just happening?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

She rolled her eyes. She should definitely be encouraging him. And he had a proper attitude. Probably drove the other humans up the walls. “It’s working,” she said. “Great job.”

“Thanks,” he said, and headed for the door. He paused with one hand on the latch, looking at Crawly. “Say, are you married?”

“I don’t do that,” she said.

“Mmm. Fair enough.” He opened the door. “Well. I’ll see you around, then, Crawly?”

“Sounds delightful,” she said. 

He stepped out and gave her a wave. “Have a nice day.”

“Yeah,” she said, and shut the door. 


	128. 2741 BC - Thinis, Egypt

_2741 BC. Thinis, Egypt._

Aziraphale strolled through the marketplace, a cask of wine tucked under one arm. He’d decided to take a few decades without a job, and was enjoying himself immensely. It was much easier to find time to do casual blessings when he wasn’t spending the better part of his day in a warehouse. 

In fact, he spent much of his time simply walking about, looking for humans in need of some assistance or guidance. As he was now, really.

The sound of someone crying broke through the bustling noises of the market, and he stopped walking. Aziraphale turned slowly, until he spotted a human sitting between two houses, apparently sobbing. 

Oh, dear. 

He walked over to them. “Pardon me—I couldn’t help but notice that you seem to be in distress. Might I be of service?”

The human raised their head slowly. Their eyes were bloodshot, tears in tracks down their face. They also seemed rather dusty. “Go away.”

“Ah,” he said. “Are you sure? I don’t have any other engagements this afternoon and I’d like to help, if there’s anything I can do.”

They dropped their head back into their arms. “Can you rebuild a house in a day?”

Probably, but of course he couldn’t say that. “I’m afraid not, but I daresay I might be able to assist you in finding a replacement.”

“Not likely,” they said. 

“I’d like to make an attempt. What is your name, dear?”

“Nedjemib,” she said, looking at him again. “Are you… from Sumer?”

How people still thought he was Sumerian was a mystery* to him. He’d been in Egypt for as long as many humans lived, now. “Yes,” he said. “Asir-fell, at your service.”

(* After centuries in Ur, Aziraphale radiated ‘Sumerian’ in much the same way he radiated intelligence and a vague disregard for gender: with all the strength of the sun at high noon over the equator on Midsummer, such that any given human, upon meeting him, assumed he was Sumerian. Provided, of course, they knew what that was.)

“My house was destroyed,” Nedjemib said. “It’s gone. My husband died five months ago. I don’t know what to do.”

Oh, goodness. That was rather more than he’d anticipated. Still—all the better for blessing. “Have you any family?”

“No,” she said. “Except for the baby.”

“The baby—oh.” 

Nedjemib was rather visibly pregnant. 

“Well. We’d best get the two of you some shelter before nightfall, I’ll warrant. I know just the place.”

She frowned. “Really?”

“If not, I’ve rather deluded myself.” He shifted the wine to his other arm and offered her a hand. “Come along then—we’d best get a wiggle on if you’d like a bath as well.”


	129. 2733 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for alcohol use.

_2733 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia_.

Crawly slumped onto the couch in her house. “Don’t get drunk,” she said. “’S boring when you get drunk.”

“I don’t think so,” Zunan said. “Or it wouldn’t be if you did too.”

“I told you, I can’t do that.” She scowled at him. “You know that. It’s been ages.”

He shrugged. “Maybe I forgot.”

“I don’t know why I keep you around.” She sank farther down, looking halfway at the ceiling. “How’s your family?”

“Good,” he said. “Thank you, by the way. You know what for, but I remember what you said you’d do if I brought it up, so I’m not bringing it up.”

She pointed a finger at him. “I ought to,” she said without much feeling.

What she’d done was kept his youngest from dying before they could become properly evil. Seemed a waste of a perfectly good—or bad, that was the whole point—soul, if they died before they developed free will properly. 

The thing was, as much of a bastard as he was, Zunan wasn’t actually terrible to be around once one got past the outside of things. He was petty and just a little vindictive. Enough that she didn’t feel obligated to tempt him into being worse every other day. 

“You won’t,” he said with a smile, then frowned at his cup. “Hey, where’d my wine go?”

She put on her most innocent expression. “You probably drank it all.”

“Yeah, right.” He scowled at her. “Don’t think I don’t know it’s you,” he said. 

“You can’t prove it though,” she said.

He scowled and put his cup down. “Are there others like you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.”

She sighed. “Depends on what you mean. There’s at least one. He’s in Ur, I think.” Other Demons and Angels popped in and out too fast to really be kept track of. 

“Think my grandad met that one once,” Zunan said. 

“Yeah?”

“White hair?”

“That’s the one.”

Zunan nodded. “Makes sense. I think he convinced my grandad to quit his job and use his money for the good of the poor.”

Crawly snorted. “And how did that work out for him?”

“He died five years later, and left my dad almost nothing.”

“That sounds about right,” Crawly said. Didn’t make sense, doing good to that extreme. After all, if you were so good you died, you stopped doing good, and then where were you?

“Is that why you’re not for marriage?”

“Sorry?”

“That you’re like you are. Does that mean you can’t do marriage?”

She laughed. “Yeah, you could say that. My sort don’t really do… love, really. Not our thing. And marriage is something you lot came up with.”

“I guess it is,” Zunan said. “Seems unfortunate, living… well, however long it is you live. Two hundred years? All alone.”

Two hundred years. Crawly must’ve been getting better at hiding how things really worked. “I don’t get lonely,” she said.

“Everyone gets lonely,” Zunan said. “It’s only human.”

“Not me.” She gave him his wine back. 


	130. 2721 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for murder, minor character death, and grief/depression.

_2721 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia_.

Crawly turned the corner to her street, and paused. A crowd was gathered around Zunan’s house—maybe two dozen people. That wasn’t terribly unusual, since Zunan often hosted parties. Something seemed off, though. 

They were silent, that was what.

She ran toward the house to the back of the crowd. “What’s going on?”

An older human turned to her, expression worried. “It’s Zunan—something’s happened.”

Something in Crawly’s stomach dropped. “He’s not allowed.”

“I don’t think ‘allowed’ factors into it,” the human said.

She cursed and started trying to push her way through. If she could just get inside, she could do something. More than a few dozen stressed humans, anyway. 

“Hey, watch it,” one of the humans said. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Neighbour.” She moved to push them out of the way. 

“I’m his brother,” the human said. “So you can shove off, _neighbour_.”

“I’m a doctor. Let me through.”

“No, you’re not.”

She wasn’t, so she couldn’t argue with that. But she couldn’t miracle her way in, either. Too many humans, everywhere. Bless it, she just wanted to get in so she could—

So she could extend his… time in which to sin. 

That didn’t sound very convincing, did it?

The door opened, and a woman Crawly recognized as Zunan’s wife stepped out. “Is Lady Crawly here?”

“Yes! I’m here!” 

The humans gave her dirty looks, but parted to let her through. Good. They knew what was good for them. 

Crawly ran to the door. “Is he alive?”

“Barely,” his wife said, and ushered Crawly inside. “We don’t know what happened. He returned from a meal with his business partner, just fine, and before we knew it he was out on the floor.”

“Poison,” said Crawly. “Sounds like poison.”

They turned into Zunan’s room, where he lay, still, on the bed. A faint tang of supernatural presence permeated the air, neither occult or aethereal. 

Too late, then. 

His wife made a choked noise and left Crawly to go to his side. 

Crawly walked toward the bed much more slowly. He was dead. Definitely dead. 

“Do something,” his wife said. 

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can, you can because you did it for our child. Now, Crawly, you’re going to do something, or Anu help me you won’t leave here much better than he will.”

“I can’t. He’s gone. I can’t fight Death.” Not for humans, not without Hell coming down on her. 

“What good are you, then?” 

Crawly shrugged helplessly.

“Then get the fuck out of my house.”

She raised her hand and snapped her fingers. His wife clearly already knew she wasn’t human, and she couldn’t give her any more of a shock than she already had. 

Back in her own house, Crawly sank slowly to the floor. Why the Heaven did she keep doing this? That was the only constant with humans: they died. 

From the door, she could still hear the humans murmuring outside Zunan’s house. She should probably lock it, in case his wife came back to make good on her words. She snapped her fingers, and a boulder appeared to block the door. 

Sleep. Sleep sounded good. 


	131. 2707 BC - Thinis, Egypt

_2707 BC. Thinis, Egypt._

Aziraphale settled into the chair in his house, holding a cup of spices. He didn’t eat, but he found the scents of food to be rather pleasant. And there wasn’t any Heavenly rule, as far as he could tell, against smelling food. 

He’d finished up his blessings for the day, and though he could be out doing more, the middle of the night was rarely a very good time for finding humans. 

He’d had another one tell him to read today. It seemed to be gaining popularity very quickly. And was beginning to be used for purposes outside commerce, which was compelling. Though it seemed Heaven was less against commerce than he’d thought, considering Gabriel’s reaction to Aziraphale working under a merchant. 

It just seemed strange, putting words down on a surface where they could be seen. It was a whole new facet of language which, as far as he’d seen, the Almighty had no opinion on. And he rather felt as though he ought to wait and see what She thought of something before participating. 

Then again, She had been quiet, as far as he could tell, for ninety-seven years. And writing had existed before the Flood, so if She intended to weigh in on the matter, it would have made the most sense for Her to have done it back then.

Supposing She had no opinion on it, was an Angel allowed to do something morally neutral? He was meant to be actively good, not merely not-bad. Then again, the addition of a neutral behaviour didn’t make his good deeds any less. It was simply… neutral. 

And surely, living on Earth, it was to be expected he would have to adopt some less Angelic behaviours in order to blend in and best perform his duties. It was practically expected! He already wore clothes and owned a house, after all.

Oh, he really shouldn’t be considering it. He didn’t need to learn to read—this was just another of those things humans expected that Angels oughtn’t do. Like eating, or sleeping. 

He set his cup of spices down. He was not having this train of thought. Preposterous, an Angel reading. What was he thinking.


	132. 2702 BC - Thinis, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief xenophobia.

_2702 BC. Thinis, Egypt._

Aziraphale glanced down the street, which was deserted. It was very early morning, so most professional-types were still sleeping, though the farmers were awake. However, he happened to have it on good confidence that the human he intended to visit, a man named Merit-Ptah, was an early riser. 

He knocked at the door, checking the other side of the street, which was also empty. Of course, strictly speaking, he’d worked out that what he intended to do wasn’t necessarily against the rules, but centuries of habit were difficult to break. 

The door creaked open and he started. A man looked out at him, one eyebrow raised. “Yes? If you want directions, try next door.”

“Oh, I’m not looking for directions,” he said.

“You don’t look like you’re from Thinis. What are you, Mesopotamian?”

“Sumerian, thank you very much.” He huffed. Some Egyptians couldn’t tell the difference between an Akkadian and a Sumerian, and it was quite irritating. Although, it wouldn’t do for him to be cross over a little thing like that. He schooled his expression into something friendlier. “Begging your pardon. That was terribly rude of me. I’m looking for Merit-Ptah?”

“That’s me. What do you want, then, Mr. Sumerian?”

“Asir-fell. I was hoping I might…” This was the difficult bit. It wasn’t a bad thing, not _really_. None of the other Angels ever mentioned it either way, and it wasn’t all about commerce these days. Not to mention that Heaven didn’t actually condemn commerce as he’d thought they would. 

Oh dear. He’d practiced saying it before he left, for rather longer than was probably warranted. 

“Buck up, old chap,” he muttered under his breath, then squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “I was hoping I might learn to read. And write, hopefully. If you wouldn’t mind terribly. I am prepared to pay you. Quite a lot, if necessary.”

Merit-Ptah looked him up and down. “Haven’t you got writing, in Mesopotamia?”

“Sumer. And yes, we do have writing in Sumer, but I haven’t been in quite a long time. I’m living here now, you see.” He paused. “If… it wouldn’t be too much trouble?”

Merit-Ptah shrugged. “Come in then. Azurkhel, was it?” He stepped to the side.

“Asir-fell.”

“Asir-fell. Sumerians have no taste in names.”

Aziraphale allowed himself an uncomfortable smile. Perhaps this wouldn’t be as bad as he’d anticipated. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I have no actual historical reason to believe that Egyptians in the 2700's would have anti-Sumerian sentiments.


	133. 2687 BC - Thinis, Egypt

_2687 BC. Thinis, Egypt_. 

Aziraphale checked his scroll and looked back at the cask of wine. “No, this is definitely the wrong one.”

“Are you sure?” His new employer, a young merchant named Baufra, looked worried. “Only, the boy said it was.”

“I am certain,” said Aziraphale. “You’re meant to have one from Memphis, not Abydos. Someone’s made rather a large mistake along the way.”

Baufra sighed, sinking down to the floor with his head in his hands. “We’ll have to send it all the way back, then. It’ll take far too long—the Pharaoh wants it next week!”

“Not necessarily,” said Aziraphale. 

“Really?”

“No. You see, I’ve been reading a few legal documents in my spare time, talking things over with lawyers, that sort of thing. I’m not an expert by any means yet, but—”

“Get to the point, Asir-fell.”

Well. If that’s how it was. Baufra was generally quite forgiving, but there was a reason Aziraphale had selected him for his new employer. He still had a lot of progress to make in some areas, when it came to general goodness. 

Aziraphale collected himself. “But, as I was about to say, I don’t believe you can be held culpable for this. I’ll send for the one from Memphis, and we’ll put this one in reserve while we wait, just in case.”

Baufra scowled. “I doubt the people I’ll be working with will agree with you.”

“If they don’t, they will have to contend with the legal precedent,” said Aziraphale.

That was one lovely thing about writing, he was discovering. It could document concepts in a way verbal words could not. Really, it made sure people followed through on contracts, and as such, was a tool for good. 

Though he’d only been able to read for a bit more than a decade at this point, he could hardly remember why he’d been so hesitant in the first place. It was terribly clever, really, making visual representations of concepts. 

“Legal precedent,” Baufra muttered. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is, really.”

Baufra flapped a hand in his direction. “Go away. Take this one and keep it in reserve, but I want the one from Memphis within the week.”

Aziraphale made his best I-disapprove-of-your-rudeness-but-recognize-your-distress-and-thus-am-not-saying-anything noise, then picked up the cask and left Baufra alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no knowledge of Old Kingdom legal systems, so this is all conjecture. Except for cattle counts, which were a real thing. :)


	134. 2672 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for referenced murder.

_2672 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia._

Crawly opened their eyes, then closed them again. They could hear the sounds of a party. A loud one. It’d woken them up, and they weren’t sure they wanted to be awake. 

Still, they couldn’t seem to fall back asleep. Maybe they’d slept enough. A thick layer of dust over the bedspread suggested that ‘enough’ was a very long time to be asleep. The humans probably thought they’d died. 

They sat up in bed and waved a hand to put on fresh clothes. If they couldn’t fall asleep again, they might as well get on with things. And not think about poor Zunan. 

A conjured basin of water poured over their head got the worst of the built-up grime off, and a miracle did the rest. At least they hadn’t fallen asleep outside this time. 

They miracled away the boulder they’d used to barricade the door and opened it. The doorway was littered with… litter. A few pottery jugs, a tablet or two, and some dust that might once have been flowers. Both the tablets were notices to vacate the house, one dated twenty years after they’d fallen asleep and the other thirty.* Both looked worn.

(* There had been a number of other tablets, but they disappeared over the years as the locals realized that the house was resisting all attempts to repurpose it. A few of the more creative thinkers had started leaving tokens for the inhabitant. Who or what the inhabitant was depended on who you asked, but the general consensus was that they weren’t to be troubled with trivial things like taxation.)

The music was louder out here. They probably ought to go see what all the fuss was about. 

As Crawly shut the door, a human stepped out of the house opposite. 

Crawly gestured a casual greeting. “Hey. I don’t suppose you know what year it is?”

The human’s eyes went wide. They made a gesture to ward off evil and went back inside. 

“Rude,” Crawly said to themself, then set off toward the music. 

In the main part of town, there seemed to be a party. There were drum-players and dancers and people playing harps and flutes. Vendors hawked food and various goods, and people generally seemed in good spirits. 

Crawly cast an eye over their clothing, ducked into an alley, and put on something a little more up-to-date. 

As they came out, a young human waved to them. “Hello! Fantastic party isn’t it?”

“Er, sure. Yeah. Nice. What’s all this about, then?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Haven’t been here in a few years. Humour me.”

“The king is throwing a party for all of us,” the human said.

“King Lugalbanda?”

The human gawked at them. “No. He hadn’t been king for forty years. And it’s not Dumuzid, either. It’s Gilgamesh.”

“Oh, right. Gilgamesh. ’Course.”

“How much have you had?” The human sounded amused now. 

Crawly made a noncommittal noise. “This Gilgamesh. What d’you think of him?”

The human looked at the ground. “Well. He’s ever so pretty, isn’t he?”

“Sure,” said Crawly. 

“That beard. And he’s so _tall_.” The human sighed dreamily. “Of course, his mother was a goddess.”

“He—what?” They’d heard something about God having a kid somewhere down the line. If that was already happening and Crawly had missed it, they were going to be in so much trouble. 

“Ninsun. The Cow Goddess.”

Crawly exhaled in relief. “Oh. That’s all right, then.”

“Are you talking about the king?” Another human stepped up to the first one’s elbow. “He’s a nuisance.”

The first human shoved the second good-naturedly. “Don’t speak of him that way. He’s perfect.”

“He is not. He broke my brother’s wrist last month, and it’s still not healed up. He’s a terror, is what he is.”

“King Gilgamesh is favoured by the gods. He’s a great man.” They paused. “As much of him is a man, anyway.”

“And he’s throwing this party?” Crawly asked.

The first human nodded. “The wall is completed.”

“The wall. Wasn’t the wall done… a while ago?”

“He added to it,” the second one said. “It’s cheating if you ask me, completing it over again.”

“You just don’t like him because he’s a man,” the first one said. “If he were a woman, you’d be all over Gilgamesh just like the rest of us.”

The second one started arguing, and Crawly walked away.

It was a nice party. They could see that. It’d be horrible to clean up afterward when all the humans were sick from drinking too much today, but they all seemed to be having a good enough time now. 

Crawly liked a proper party. Not in the sort of way that humans did, but they appreciated them in the same way they appreciated a particularly annoying fad. The humans got drunk, which caused all manner of bad things, and then they were hungover and didn’t want to clean up, which made them either lazy, angry, or both, and still suited Crawly just fine. 

A commotion broke out at the end of the street, and Crawly turned to look. 

A very tall man walked at the center of a group of priests and officials, dressed in fine linen and jewelry. There was a crown on his head as well. So _that_ was Gilgamesh.

He wasn’t so bad-looking, as humans went, with an impressive beard and thick hair. Still, Crawly didn’t tend to appreciate human appearances the same way other humans did. Seemed odd, being so attached to what a body looked like. Only ever getting one probably played into it, though. 

Crawly turned away and walked back the way they came. Getting into politics was messy at the best of times, and if Gilgamesh really was what the humans said he was, they wanted to avoid having anything to do with him if they could. 

Especially if there were other gods involved. Crawly wasn’t a fan of the one they’d met, and wanted to avoid getting involved with more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Gilgamesh's historicity is debated, but I couldn't resist.


	135. 2665 BC - Thinis, Egypt

_2665 BC. Thinis, Egypt._

Aziraphale looked up to see the human who’d just entered the room—a rather morally dubious woman named Inetkawes he’d been assigned to guide toward good. Why her, he wasn’t entirely sure, but that was his assignment. 

“How can I help?” Inetkawes draped herself over the bench opposite the stool he’d been given. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

They’d met in the market a few days earlier, after he’d received a tip-off that she’d be there. It hadn’t been an especially pleasant tip-off, alas. A messenger Angel appeared in his house while he was bathing and hadn’t let him finish before telling him what was going on. Still, it had been effective.

“Hello?” Inetkawes asked.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Not sure what came over me.” He paused. “I don’t have business, really. Rather, I was hoping we could… talk?”  
He hadn’t been given any more effective instruction than that, unfortunately.

Inetkawes looked unimpressed. “What about? Business? Politics?”

“Socially,” said Aziraphale. It was terribly ineffective, but he couldn’t disobey. Surely the Angels who dealt with assignments knew what they were doing.

Inetkawes opened her mouth, then closed it again before speaking. “Listen—what’s your name?”

“Asir-fell.”

“Listen, Asir-fell,” she said. “I’m very flattered, but I have no interest in marriage. And, frankly, you don’t look like the… marrying type.”

He shook his head quickly. “Oh, no, not at all. Of course not. What a ludicrous idea. I merely meant as acquaintances. Your work sounded frightfully interesting.”

Inetkawes looked more confused, if that was possible. “You came all the way across Thinis to talk to me?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, doing his best not to sound miserable.

“Right.” She paused. “What is it you do, then?”

“I work in a warehouse,” he said, and smiled. It had been a good idea, taking up an occupation. Much easier to make conversation. 

“Really? I’d have thought you’d be a scribe. Didn’t you say you can read?”

“I can. I’m not a scribe, though.”

“How sad. My brother needs one.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

She sighed. “Listen. Asitkhel…”

“Asir-fell.”

“Asirefel,” she said, standing. “I really don’t think this is going to work. Go.”

Oh, dear. He must have done something wrong. He’d done exactly as Heaven instructed, though. Of course, they hadn’t been especially specific.

He stood. “I’m terribly sorry.”

“Go away.”

“Right.” He turned and followed a servant out the door and into the street.

What a bother. He’d have to wait a year or two and try again.


	136. 2652 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

_2652 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia_.

Crawly leaned against the wall of a goldsmith’s workshop, watching the market go by. They weren’t especially invested in doing a temptation today. Their review was next month, and they had plenty racked up as it was. They _did_ still have to get their tablets fired, but that wouldn’t take too long.

Still, sitting in the market gave them the appearance of being busy. Or would, if there were another Demon around. To the humans, they probably looked quite lazy, just sitting there.

A vendor walked up to them. “Stones?”

They looked up at the vendor. “What d’you mean, stones?”

“D’you want to buy my stones? I polished them an’ carved them myself.”

Crawly raised an eyebrow. “Why would I want stones?”

“They’re a memorial, sir. Lady. Er, for King Gilgamesh an’ his friend with the hair goin’ to slay Humbaba.”

“Enkidu,” Crawly said. “Enkidu’s got the hair.”

“Right you are, sir.”

It was a bit strange. Since Enkidu arrived, King Gilgamesh had been a lot less violent against the people of Uruk, which was… they probably shouldn’t finish that thought. Point was, Crawly wasn’t sure how Enkidu’d done it. The theory was that he occupied the king wrestling all the time, but wrestling constantly seemed unpleasant at best, by Crawly’s reckoning. 

“How come they need a memorial?” Crawly asked. “They haven’t died yet.”

“Not yet, but they will, mark my words.” The vendor pursed their lips. “Are you goin’ to buy a stone, lady? Sir?”

Crawly grinned. “Yeah, why not. How much?”

“What’ve you got?”

Crawly reached down beside them, where there had previously been nothing but there now was a small bag, which they made a show of looking through. “Few shells, a gem, and a token to say that the owner’s owed a measure of grain.”

“A gem, lady?”

“Yeah,” they pulled it out. “Lapis lazuli, I think. Is lapis lazuli a gem?”

“Yes, sir. I think so. For that… you could have all these.” They gestured to their tray of stones.

“I just need three,” said Crawly, and held out the gem. It wasn’t like they needed it. They could just conjure another. Small price to pay for… inspiring greed. And covetousness, since the vendor’s friends would probably be quite jealous of it.

The vendor’s eyes went wide as they took the lump of blue rock. “Are—are you sure?”

“Yeah. Can I pick one?” They pointed at the stones in the vendor’s tray.

“’Course.” They held out the tray, and Crawly picked a few out. 

The stones were engraved with King Gilgamesh’s likeness. They were probably river stones and not worth much, but they were nice to hold, all the same. Smooth.

“I’ll take these.” 

The vendor nodded and hurried away, the lapis lazuli in one fist. 


	137. 2643 BC - Memphis, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for xenophobia and ageism.

_2643 BC. Memphis, Egypt_. 

Aziraphale leaned down to inspect a flower. It smelled rather lovely. He was in the courtyard of a governor—Perneb, if Aziraphale remembered correctly—who was looking to employ scribes. A servant had shown him into the courtyard, apparently to await Perneb for some sort of evaluation.

Over the years, he’d had quite a few people tell him he ought to put his literacy to use. A few years back, he’d finally got down to it and apprenticed himself to a scribe. Since he just finished up, he was looking for employment, per Heavenly instruction.

The door to the governor’s home opened and a well-dressed human stepped out. “Asir-fell?”

“That’s me,” Aziraphale said, straightening up. “Are you Perneb?”

“Yes.” Perneb looked Aziraphale up and down, expression skeptical. “You’re… Sumerian, aren’t you?”

“I have lived here in Egypt for more than fifty years, but yes, my family is from Ur.” In a manner of speaking, Noah’s family was his own, wasn’t it? And they’d lived in Ur long enough to be called ‘from’ there, even if they were, strictly speaking, from south of Egypt.

Perneb raised an eyebrow. “Very well. You can read and write?”

“Quite so. I wouldn’t apply to become a scribe if I couldn’t.” He attempted a chuckle, but it trailed off as Perneb studied him. 

“I don’t like Sumerians,” said Perneb.

“I have lived in Egypt my whole life,” said Aziraphale. And he would have, too, if he were a mortal of his body’s apparent age.

“You needn’t worry about conflicting loyalties or anything like that.”

“Good,” said Perneb. “You were taught by…”

“Raherka.”

“Hmm.” Perneb sniffed. “You’re a bit old, aren’t you? To be working like that?”

“I assure you, I am quite capable.”

“I don’t want to hire you only for you to die in the next pestilence.”

Aziraphale was _not_ irritated. “I wouldn’t worry about that,” he said. “Pestilence knows to leave me well enough alone.”

“I hope you wouldn’t turn that mouth on me,” said Perneb, though he sounded more entertained than angry.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“That’s it. I like a bit of attitude.” He clapped Aziraphale on the shoulder. “You’re hired.”

“Oh—I see.” He hadn’t expected it to go quite that easily. In fact, he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to work under Perneb now. Though, really, Perneb’s discomforting joviality might be enough that he could take the post and count it as a bit of divine guidance. Save two birds with one… bowl of seed. As it were. 

“Come in the morning. Buneb will show you what to do.”

Aziraphale attempted a smile. “Jolly good. Thank you, Perneb.”


	138. 2633 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for minor character death.

_2633 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia_.

Crawly woke with a start. It was still dark outside, thank Satan. Or, hopefully ‘still’ was the right word. They’d been practicing sleeping at night like a human. It was far less boring than sitting someplace with no one to talk to and nothing to do. 

Something had definitely happened to wake them, though. They could hear people shouting outside. 

Probably best if they worked out what was going on. Maybe Crawly could get involved enough to tell Dagon they caused whatever it was. 

They rolled to sit upright on the edge of the bed. There seemed to be shards of pottery on the floor from their ornamental vase, which had been sitting on the table when they went to bed. That was probably what woke them. 

Crawly waved their hand and the vase reassembled itself. Then they snapped their fingers to put fresh clothes on and went to the door to look outside.

A few other humans were on the doorsteps of their houses. A faint glow of torches lit the horizon over rooftops to the west. Crawly turned to the woman who lived in the house next door. They hadn’t bothered to learn her name yet. “What’s all this, then? What happened?”

“The Bull of Heaven,” she said, voice fearful. “Ishtar called it down to punish King Gilgamesh for spurning her.”

Crawly opened their mouth, then closed it again. “The what, now?”

“The Bull of Heaven,” she said. “It’s not over yet.” She turned and went back into her house, shutting the door.

Crawly stepped farther out. “Well. That was a thing.” 

They shut the door and headed west. If they weren’t going to sleep, might as well work out what ‘the Bull of Heaven’ meant. It obviously couldn’t be _Heaven_ Heaven—they’d be able to sense that, but couldn’t feel so much as an Angel. It might just be a regular old bull, except that cows didn’t generally cause earthquakes. 

Did they?

No, Crawly was pretty sure cows didn’t cause earthquakes. If they did, they’d have noticed by now. 

They rounded a corner and paused. A crevice stretched down the street, farther than they could see, with half-collapsed buildings on either side. Humans were crying. 

Crawly walked to the edge of the crevice and looked down. It was deeper than it seemed should be possible, stretching into darkness. 

A hand grabbed the back of Crawly’s robe and jerked them back.

“Oi!” Crawly turned and swatted at them. “What’s that for?”

The human looked young—maybe a few decades old—with tear tracks marked out in dust on their face. “Don’t tempt fate,” they said.

“I’ll tempt what I want,” said Crawly, straightening their clothes out again. “What’s all this?”

“The Bull of Heaven did it,” the human said. “Don’t get too close or you’ll fall in too.”

“You mean there are humans in there?” Crawly glanced back at the crevice. 

“A hundred men,” the human confirmed, voice cracking. “My father and brothers.”

Crawly took a few steps farther away. “I—that’s—a _bull_?”

The human nodded, pointing toward Gilgamesh’s palace. 

Crawly followed their gaze, but didn’t see anything. 

The human seemed convinced there was something there, their eyes flicking like they were watching something.

“So… you’re saying you can see a bull over there?”

“You can’t?”

“Er—well. ’Course I can.” They paused. “Is—”

The human’s eyes went wide and they grabbed their robe again, tugging them toward a building. “It’s going to do it again.”

“How the Heaven—”

The ground shuddered, a rumble rolling through the city. Someone screamed, and more joined them. 

When the rumbling stopped, the human let go of Crawly’s clothes and they stumbled back. 

What the _fuck_ was going on? There was obviously something causing the earthquakes, something Crawly couldn’t see but all the humans could. Humans couldn’t just predict earthquakes. 

Was—could the humans be right? Was there a holy bull in Uruk and they just couldn’t see it somehow? God had some serious explaining to do, if Crawly ever somehow got hold of Her again. 


	139. 2622 BC - Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to the Flood.

_2622 BC. Heaven_. 

Gabriel was waiting when Aziraphale arrived, their many violet eyes watching him as he crossed the expanse of floor.

“Principality Aziraphale. How is Earth?”

“Well enough,” said Aziraphale. “Nearly back to normal, now. After the Flood.”

“Excellent. We knew they’d recover quickly.”

“Quite right,” said Aziraphale with as much feeling as he could muster.

“How is your little charade going?”

Aziraphale straightened up. “I beg your pardon?”

“Appearing human, of course.”

“Oh, yes. Well, I’ve taken up human occupations. It’s an excellent way to meet humans in need of blessing or guidance, let me tell you.”

Gabriel frowned. “A… human occupation?”

“Yes. A job.”

“And that helps you to appear human?”

“Most humans have a job of some sort, so it was a bit odd from their perspectives when I didn’t. I worked in a warehouse for a few decades, and now I’m a scribe.”

“What is a ware-house?”

Oh dear. Gabriel didn’t seem especially pleased. Perhaps… perhaps he’d gone about it wrong. 

“A repository of objects awaiting transportation to another location.” Aziraphale tried to smile. “It’s really quite clever.”

“And a scur-ibe?”

“Scribe. Someone who writes.”

Gabriel raised their eyebrows. “What is ‘writes’?”

“Writing. It’s still rather new. The humans use pictures to represent concepts and objects. I could show you, if you’d like? In fact, I think it could be very useful to us.”

“Show me,” said Gabriel, voice guarded. 

Aziraphale swallowed and conjured up a scroll and stylus. He used the stylus to make a few notes, miracled the ink dry, then presented it to Gabriel. “These marks indicate that the Principality Aziraphale—” he pointed to the ones representing his own name— “blessed a young man who lost his worldly belongings in a flood last month.”

Gabriel took the scroll, squinting at it. 

Aziraphale tried not to fidget as Gabriel looked it over, examining it and running their fingers over the words. If they could switch to written reports, he could save quite a lot of time for work down on Earth. Unfortunately, whether or not Gabriel understood it was a bit of a gamble. Metaphorically, of course.

Finally, Gabriel looked back from the scroll to Aziraphale. “I like it. I’ll take it to the other Archangels and we will decide what to do.”

“Not—not to God?”

“We do not bother the Almighty with trifles,” Gabriel said sternly. “She has more to worry about than how Angels give their reports.”

“I see. I won’t mention it again.”

“Good,” said Gabriel, and vanished the scroll with a snap of their fingers. “Now, give your report.”


	140. 2617 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

_2617 BC. Uruk, Mesopotamia._

Crawly shut the door of their house and stepped out into the street, where they joined the humans walking in little groups toward the center of the city. The human they’d spoken with said King Gilgamesh had been sighted from the walls. 

Which, if Crawly was honest, was a bit of a surprise. The man was at least eighty. The Elders of Uruk had been in charge since he left. As far as Crawly knew, they’d just been waiting for news of Gilgamesh’s death to appoint his son—Ur-Nungal?—the new king. 

Why the leader of an entire city was allowed to swan off into the wilderness at his own leisure was a mystery. At least the Elders of Uruk were capable of running things in his absence. 

Though to be fair, more than sixty years of ruling had to get old eventually, for a human. And Enkidu dying was bound to take a toll. 

“Oh, Crawly,” a human said from behind him. “You’d best get a move on if you want to see King Gilgamesh.”

Crawly turned to see one of the neighbours, an older woman whose name they had yet to learn, pass by them. “Why’re you going? You’ve seen the king.” 

She clucked at them. “Of course I have, but I want to see him now. Besides, why are you coming if you don’t want to see him too?”

They shrugged. “Maybe I didn’t know where everyone was going.”

“You’re brighter than that, Crawly,” she called over her shoulder as she left them behind. 

The humans were gathered in a mass, lining the street that led to the gate where King Gilgamesh was expected to enter. Crawly joined the back of the group, peering over the heads of some shorter humans. A number of humans ran down the center of the street toward the gate. Crawly assumed were city officials, judging by their fine clothes and jewelry.

“What’s all this about?” A young human stood in the doorway of a nearby house.

Crawly turned, one eyebrow raised. “King Gilgamesh is coming back,” they said. 

“Oh. He’s supposed to be ever so handsome, isn’t he?” The human left the house and went to stand behind Crawly. 

“If you like that sort of thing.” Crawly watched someone lead a donkey down the street in the same direction the officials had gone. “I don’t think he’s really up for grabs these days.”

“Sorry. I’m from Mari. Not used to Uruk yet.”

Crawly turned to look at them. “Mari?” Their geography was not what it ought to be.

“It’s northwest of here.” They seemed to be standing on the balls of their feet, trying to see over the other humans’ heads but not quite succeeding.

“What are you doing down here, then?”

“Apprenticed to a coppersmith,” they said, now hopping up and down. “Sending—” they stopped hopping. “I get to send stuff back home.”

“Sounds like good work,” Crawly said meaningfully. Wouldn’t hurt to get a little work done while they waited.

“I hope so.”

“You could just shove your way to the front,” they said in a low voice.

The human looked affronted. “That would be rude!”

“I’m just saying. You could.”

“I _could_ make you pick me up so I can see.”

Crawly’s mouth dropped open for a moment before they got the words together. “Not if you know what’s good for you,” they managed finally. 

“My point exactly.” They started jumping up and down again.

Crawly turned and walked along the crowd. Some humans were ridiculous. At least they didn’t have to write down failed temptations.


	141. 2606 BC - Memphis, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief queerphobia (arophobia) and references to both adultery and slavery.

_2606 BC. Memphis, Egypt_. 

Aziraphale entered Perneb’s records room and sat on his customary mat with a sigh. Early morning light shone through the window on the eastern wall, lighting up his scrolls for the day. He still had a soft spot for light from the east, even now. 

Hemaka, the other scribe he worked with, had yet to arrive, so he picked up the papyrus he’d been copying the day before and got to work. The papyrus was a collection of tax records which needed to be duplicated so the originals could be sent to the palace. 

Pharaoh Sneferu was rather intent on taxes, what with all the conquering he was doing. It was a nasty business, but Aziraphale couldn’t very well interfere with politics on that scale without permission. He’d tried to visit Heaven to ask, of course, but had been turned away. Apparently, they were preparing for some important business to do with the Plan in the next century or two. 

He just hoped that whatever the business was, it wouldn’t take too long. Human lives were terribly short, and there were quite a lot of unfortunate people being made to work on all the new structures Sneferu was ordering. Pyramids, or something like that.

The door to the records room opened and Hemaka entered. He was panting and his legs were dusty like he’d been running. “Hi, Asir-fell. Sorry I’m late.”

“That’s quite all right, dear boy.” Aziraphale gathered more ink on his stylus and began the next line. “Are you well?”

“Yes,” Hemaka said. “I just got caught up with… something.”

Aziraphale looked up from his work long enough to catch sight of Hemaka glancing about like a small, frightened animal of some sort. “Oh?” 

Hemaka settled onto the floor behind Aziraphale, picking up a fresh scroll himself. “It’s nothing.”

“You’re not acting as if it’s nothing,” said Aziraphale lightly. “If you told me, I might be able to help.”

Hemaka had only been working for Perneb for a few months since the last scribe retired, and seemed far too impressionable a boy to be working in Memphis. Just the previous week, Aziraphale had caught him ‘borrowing’ papyrus from the stores they were meant to work from. He’d given him a stern talking-to and miracled up some replacements for the papyrus.

“It’s… have I told you about Mereret?”

“Not that I recall,” said Aziraphale. 

“She lives two houses down from my family.”

“Is that so?” Aziraphale smudged the ink by mistake and huffed, waving a finger over it to restore the shape of the word.

Hemaka sighed loudly. “It’s a problem, Asir-fell. She’s beautiful. She kissed me yesterday.” His voice was dreamy.

“Why on Earth should that be a problem?”

“It’s not, really… it’s just that she’s married.”

Azirphale’s hand stilled and set his stylus down to look over his shoulder. “Hemaka. My dear boy. Really, I’d have thought you’d know better.”

Hemaka scowled. “That’s why I didn’t want to tell you. You don’t get it.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“You don’t get love. You’re not married, and I haven’t ever heard you talk about someone you liked.” Hemaka went back to work. “And that’s fine, just… don’t tell me how to live my life when you don’t even do this stuff.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Just because I don’t do ‘that stuff’ doesn’t mean I don’t have morals. For example, I know that _cavorting_ with someone who’s married is an excellent way for everyone involved to end up in a world of hurt. Including you.”

“She’s so beautiful, though. Dark eyes like obsidian, and—”

“I have it on good authority that there are lots of attractive women in the world,” said Aziraphale. “I don’t want to see you hurt like that. I can’t imagine Perneb would enjoy keeping a man who broke a marriage in his employ.”

Hemaka looked up, eyes wide. “You’re not going to tell him, are you?”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Aziraphale. “Of course not. These things are difficult to keep under wraps, though.”

Hemaka slouched, pouting. “Fine.”

“Buck up. You’re not a bad-looking chap yourself. I’m sure there’s a lovely young lady somewhere looking for a nice scribe to settle down with.” Aziraphale turned back to his work. 

“I guess so. I’m still mad at you.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else,” said Aziraphale airily.

Hemaka snickered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: It looks like the Old Kingdom pyramids probably weren't built by slave labor after all. Unfortunately, I didn't learn that until well after writing and subsequently posting this scene. Correcting it would take a lot more work than I have time for at the moment, so the inaccuracy's here to stay for the time being. This is why we read up-to-date encyclopedias, folks.


	142. 2597 BC - Mohenjo-daro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for nudity.

_2597 BC. Mohenjo-daro, Sindh, Pakistan._

Crawly turned the corner into a square where a small crowd of humans had gathered. Mohenjo-daro was far, far bigger than it had been when they visited last. It was nearly a proper city now!

The humans were watching a trio of dancers who were moving to music played by two more young humans. One had a flute and the other a drum. The dancers wore nothing besides metal bangles down their arms, which rang out in time with the music as they moved.

Crawly joined the back of the crowd as the music came to a crescendo, the dancers stomping rhythmically. 

One of the humans toward the back of the crowd turned to look at Crawly. “Aren’t they fantastic?”

“Sure,” said Crawly, who had no idea what the dancing was meant to look like. They hadn’t watched much last time they were in the area. Then again, it had been less organized then, if they remembered correctly. More humans fooling around and less training.

The dance finished, and the humans sounded their appreciation as the dancers bowed. 

Crawly stayed as the crowd began to disperse, handing the dancers food and trinkets before going on their way. 

One of the dancers came up to them and, before thinking about it, they conjured up a piece of bread like people ate in Uruk. 

The dancer’s eyes went wide.

Bless it.

“How did you do that?” they asked. 

“It was… in my hand already?” Crawly offered. “Excellent show, by the way.”

The dancer smiled. “Thank you.” They examined the bread in their hand. “Are you new in the area?”

“Yeah. Just came down from Uruk. I’ve been here before, but it was a long time ago.”

They nodded, and tossed the bread to another dancer, who offered them a length of cotton fabric in exchange. They wrapped it around themself, then looked at Crawly. “Do you need a guide around the city?”

“I’m not sure—” they paused. They might not _need_ a guide, but the dancer was being awfully nice, and it might be a decent place to start on the temptation front. “Er, yeah, actually. That’d be great.”

“I am Sarojini,” she said with a smile.

“Crawly.”

“We’re going to the baths next,” one of the other dancers said. They were nearly as tall as Crawly, with dark hair in a very, very long braid down her back. “If you wanted to come with us.”

“The baths?” Last time they’d been in Mohenjo-daro, the humans bathed in the river. 

“I thought you said you’d been here,” Sarojini said. “Yes, the baths.”

The two musicians waved to the dancers and walked away, hand in hand. 

Sarojini turned back to her companions, who were gathering their spoils into a bag. “Are you nearly done?”

“Come help if you’re so worried about it,” the shorter one said, whose clothing was dyed a red-brown colour. 

Sarojini turned to Crawly, an eyebrow raised. “What do you think? Should I?”

Sometimes, friendly people were the easiest to convince to do evil. They were so trusting. Crawly hid their satisfaction. “Only if you want to,” they said. 

She frowned, but shrugged. “Fair enough.” She turned to her companions. “We’re going on ahead. I’m sure you can get along without us?”

The tall one cast her a dirty look, but she was already turned the other direction, offering Crawly her arm. They accepted, casting the other two dancers an imitation of an apologetic look, and followed Sarojini’s lead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dancers are inspired by a bronze sculpture now called "Dancing Girl." The sculpture was found in Mohenjo-daro and made sometime between 2300 and 1750 BC. It has a Wikipedia page!


	143. 2586 BC - Memphis, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to slavery.

_2586 BC. Memphis, Egypt_. 

Aziraphale settled into his usual spot in the records room and flicked through his papyrus for the day. He was beginning to really enjoy the ritual of scribal work, and Perneb’s son who took over the post some seventeen years earlier had been kind enough to allow his father’s employees to stay.

Hemaka was late again today, as he usually was this last decade. He’d been married to a lovely woman, and they had quite the collection of children these days. Three or four of them, by now. 

Aziraphale didn’t mind his tardiness, though. It allowed him a bit of time to relax and not worry about appearing human or any of that, just tracing the familiar shapes of words and enjoying the scents of ink and papyrus. 

Footsteps sounded in the hall and Aziraphale set down the fresh papyrus he’d been sme—checking for errors. He wasn’t quite sure it was right to enjoy the attributes of physical objects as much as he did, considering his body was only a means to an end. Still, he had trouble thinking of it as bad. 

Hemaka entered the room. “Good morning, Asir-fell.”

“Good morning. How is the family, dear boy?” He dipped his stylus and began copying a limestone order for something the Pharaoh wanted.

“Well,” said Hemaka, pouring ink into his palette. “Though the oldest has a cough.”

Hemaka had been wonderfully understanding of Aziraphale’s difficulty with human names. There were just so many these days, he found himself mixing Kaaper up with Kaemqed and Nakhtneith with Nebemakhet, even among adults! Children were harder yet, since their appearance changed year to year, or worse, month to month. 

“I’m terribly sorry to hear it,” said Aziraphale. “I’m sure they’ll get better soon.”

“I hope he does,” said Hemaka. 

“I’m sure* he will,” corrected Aziraphale. “And how are you?”

(* Across the city, a child who would have died of tuberculosis miraculously found his illness cured, as did everyone he had infected. Unfortunately for nearly everyone involved, this particular child grew up to be a particularly tyrannical pyramid-building overseer for the Pharaoh Djedefre. The pyramid in question was ultimately deconstructed, and the child’s work lost to time. Rumours that the ransacking of the pyramid was motivated by dislike for the child were quickly shut down, however accurate they may have been.)

Hemaka made a noncommittal noise. “I’m a bit worried about finances, but otherwise well enough.”

“Worried? I thought you were quite comfortable in that regard?”

“I was, but I met a man last week whose land was washed away last flood season.” Hemaka paused. “So I gave him… a considerable portion of my assets.”

Aziraphale set his stylus down to look at Hemaka, who was rather shrunken in on himself. “My dear boy. What a lovely thing to do!”

Hemaka looked up from his own work. “You… you really think so?”

“Of course! Such care for your fellow humans is admirable. Absolutely wonderful. Do you need any assistance while you get your accounts back in order?” 

There were few feelings quite as wonderful as that of divine guidance taken to heart. Aziraphale was surely beaming a bit too much, but couldn’t bring himself to stop. To think how far he’d come! Just twenty years ago, Aziraphale was preventing Hemaka from making bad decisions, and now look at him. 

Hemaka shook his head. “We’ll be all right, I think. My wages here are generous.”

“Do tell me if you need something,” Aziraphale said. “I’m very proud of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pyramid of Djedefre was likely never finished and is mostly gone today, but if finished was apparently particularly beautiful. All speculation about deconstruction by maltreated workers and tyrannical, tuberculosis-surviving overseers, is my own.


	144. 2576 BC - Giza, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to discorporation, torture, and slavery.

_2576 BC. Giza, Egypt_.

“Hi,” said Crawly, leaning against the doorframe of a builder’s hut. “I’m looking for someone. Think you can help me out?”

The human inside squinted at him. “Who’re you supposed to be?”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Crawly with his best ingratiating smile. “I’m looking for someone named Bytru?”

“I know him,” the human said. “Pretty bloke? With the creepy hat?”

Crawly hadn’t ever actually met Bytru and so had no idea what they looked like, but ‘with the creepy hat’ was a decent description of most Demons’ human bodies, so he just nodded. “That’s the one.”

“Next row over, by the road to the building site. If you reach the cemetery, you’ve gone too far.”

“Right,” said Crawly, and pushed himself upright. He gave the builder a quick wave and began walking toward the end of the row. 

He’d been in the middle of a long-term temptation when he got a tablet from Dagon, saying that one of the other Demons on Earth was out of their depth. He’d been instructed to meet the Demon, Bytru, in order to take over the assignment, whatever it was.

Crawly arrived at the house the human had directed him to and stepped up to the door, nearly knocking out of habit until he remembered just in time that this was a Demon. He snapped his fingers, unlatching the door, and shoved it open. “Bytru?”

“Who the Heaven are you?” The Demon inside looked surprised to see him. They had a better human disguise than the other ones Crawly’d run into over the years. The only oddity was a leopard head perched on top of the human one.

“Crawly,” said Crawly. “Dagon told me to come here.”

“Did she really?” 

_She_? Huh.

“She did,” Crawly said. “You’re meant to tell me what you’re doing here so I can take it off your hands.”

Bytru’s face fell. “I had it under control.”

“What was ‘it’?”

“I’m meant to be in Memphis.”

Crawly didn’t bother asking what Memphis was. He could always sort that out later. “Why aren’t you?”

“There’s an Angel there.”

Oh. “Which one?”

Bytru frowned. “Why the Heaven should I know? It’s an Angel. What am I going to do, walk up to them and say, ‘don’t smite me, by the way, what’s your name?’ Wouldn’t be very Demonic of me.”

Crawly grimaced. “No reason.” He paused, collecting himself. “This Angel. They tried to smite you?”

“No.”

“No? They haven’t even had to smite you and they scared you off? If they’re not smiting, you can just discorporate them. ’S not that hard.”

“I think it’s the one who smote Plagor.”

Aziraphale. Blast. Another Angel, Crawly could discorporate and go on his way, harm done. But Aziraphale… well, that’d just be rude, wouldn’t it? Sure, he’d said he would smite Crawly if he went in ‘his city’ again, but he hadn’t seemed very keen on it. And they had had the treaty. For a bit. 

Point was, if Crawly was being totally honest… he wasn’t entirely sure he could look Aziraphale in the face and discorporate him, if it came down to it. 

Satan, when had that happened?

Crawly was in so much trouble.

“Crawly?”

“Oh, er, yeah. Smote Plagor. I heard you.”

“You know that one?”

“Ngh… sort of. He’s like me.”

Bytru straightened up taller. “He’s an Angel. What—”

“No, no, no. I mean, he’s been on Earth as long as me. My… Adversary.” Crawly tried to shake off whatever was going on with him. Be cool. He could be cool. “’S no wonder you ran off. He’s the worst of the lot, that one. Nearly smote me, loads of times.” Or threatened to. Hesitantly. And sadly. “Makes sense you’d run off,” Crawly added for bad measure.

Both of Bytru’s heads eyed him suspiciously.

“What are you s’posed to be doing in Memphis, then?”

“Making trouble. Tempting. Nothing specific. I only just arrived.” Bytru frowned. “You’re not… scared, are you?”

“Of Aziraphale? Nah. I’ve got him under control. Yep. Fourteen hundred years of practice.”

“If you say so,” Bytru said.

“I’ve got this, then,” Crawly said. “Go on back down. Tell Dagon she’ll have my report in… a few decades.”

Bytru gave Crawly one last suspicious look, then stalked past them and out the door, slamming it behind them. 

With Bytru gone, Crawly went to the door and made sure it was closed, then leaned against it and slid down the floor, staring vacantly at the opposite wall. 

When had that happened, then? A few centuries ago, if someone told him to discorporate Aziraphale, it wouldn’t have been a problem. Well, no more than any other discorporation. They didn’t like discorporations much, as a general rule. Messy and unpleasant and difficult. 

It didn’t really matter, of course. Probably wouldn’t come to it. He wouldn’t let it come to it. 

He’d be a laughingstock in Hell if anyone found out he couldn’t discorporate one Angel. Worse than a laughingstock. Be in another sort of stock, for one. 

Just have to stay away from Aziraphale, then. Except for the assignment in the _same bloody city_. 

Whatever. He’d think of something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that Giza. The Great Pyramid was constructed for the Pharaoh Khufu around 2580 - 2560 BC. I’m imagining this village to be for the workers building it.


	145. 2567 BC - Memphis, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to slavery.

_2567 BC. Memphis, Egypt_. 

Aziraphale entered his home and shut the door, then went to make a cup of spices. He’d discovered that, by boiling them, he could have scented steam permeating the house rather than having to go out of his way to smell them dry. It would have been rather a waste, if he didn’t miracle them back once he finished.

He’d just finished stoking the fire when he became aware of a divine presence just to his right.

“Principality.”

He turned and looked slowly up at the Angel, who was rather tall. “Ah. Tanaphael. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I have a message for you.”

Aziraphale waved a hand and put the fire out, then straightened up, tugging his clothing into place. Not that it was out of place to begin with, but he felt he ought to do it all the same. “Jolly good. What is it?”

“A Demon is corrupting the highest officials in this city. The Archangels would like to know if you knew anything about that.”

A Demon? Aziraphale hadn’t sensed a Demon about. A blip, perhaps, some… seven or eight years ago now. Surely they couldn’t have influenced the officials without actually being in the city. 

“Principality.”

“Oh, yes. I beg your pardon. No, I’m afraid I wasn’t aware. I’ll get to it, though. Right away.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Tanaphael said. 

Aziraphale frowned. “Won’t it?”

“It is beyond you now.”

Drat. “Will someone else be coming down? A cherub, perhaps?”

“No.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said. How odd. Surely, a more powerful Angel than he might do something about it. Whatever it was. If it was so important Heaven knew about it. 

“Gabriel will conduct your review as scheduled, in fifty years’ time,” said Tanaphael. 

“If—if I might ask a question,” Aziraphale said, not quite looking at Tanaphael, “before you go?”

“You may,” said Tanaphael.

Oh dear, they sounded a mite cross. 

Aziraphale straightened his kilt again. “You see,” he said carefully, “I was wondering if I might… well, if you’d be so kind. I’m rather, er, well, I like to keep myself _in the know_ , as it were. About things happening, where I—where I’m assigned.” He cleared his throat. “So, I was rather wondering, what exactly seems to have happened?”

“The Demon Crawly has tempted the highest in the land to subjugate their subjects and force the people to build them large structures beyond their own needs. You—”

“Pyramids,” Aziraphale said. “They’re called—” 

Tanaphael was looking at them with an expression he’d rather not put words to.

He was rather bungling this, wasn’t he?

“I’m terribly sorry,” Aziraphale said quietly. “Please. Continue.”

“As I was saying,” said Tanaphael, “you failed to stop them.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “I rather did, didn’t I?” 

He’d known about the pyramids, of course. Everyone did. And he’d been worried, of course, about all those poor people being forced to work, but there was little he could do without the ear of the Pharaoh, and—well. It was rather difficult, he’d been told, to speak with the Pharaoh without blaspheming.

“We will overlook your blunder,” said Tanaphael, “this time. But be aware. We are watching you.”

“Yes. I understand.”

“Good.” Tanaphael smiled broadly. “Keep up the work.” 

They snapped their fingers and vanished. 

Aziraphale went to his chair and sat down heavily. Oh dear. How hadn’t he sensed a Demon in the city? He knew it wasn’t as much _his_ city as Ur, but he was quite centrally located, and his Angelic senses were as sharp as ever. 

And to think that it was Crawly! He ought to have expected it, really. Perhaps he’d been too lenient with the fiend, and they’d decided to take advantage. It didn’t seem like something they would—oh, but he didn’t know Demons well enough to have an opinion of what they would do, did he?

No, he most certainly did not. 

Still, it was very strange he hadn’t sensed them. 

Very strange indeed.


	146. 2556 BC - Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to torture, violence, murder, and cannibalism.

_2556 BC. Hell._

Crawly settled into his customary seat opposite Dagon’s chair. It’d been a century or two since he had to come down, since he’d been doing his reports and receiving assignments in writing. He’d been called down specifically this time, though, so he was here.

Dagon appeared in a cloud of fumes. “Demon Crawly,” she said. “I’ve been expecting you.”

He opened his mouth to say something along the lines of ‘’course you were, you invited me,’ but thought the better of it and shut it again. 

“Your reports have been… adequate,” said Dagon, oozing into her chair. “I understand you are stationed in Memphis, after that incompetent one failed.”

“Bytru,” Crawly said in lieu of agreeing. He hadn’t actually gone into Memphis, concentrating his efforts on the villages of builders around Giza and Saqqara instead. He couldn’t very well say that to Dagon, though, since he was assigned to Memphis. 

“That incompetent one,” Dagon repeated testily. “Your efforts have been… appreciated.” The last word sounded forced out. 

Crawly smiled. “Which ones?”

“The pyramids,” said Dagon with, if possible, more distaste than previously. 

Something in Crawly’s innards plummeted.

See, the thing was, he hadn’t actually, technically speaking, really had anything to do with the pyramids. Not a bit. Not a tiny little sliver of anything to do with them. Not with the administration, at any rate, and that was, he knew, what Dagon was referring to. 

About fifteen years earlier, he’d gotten a tablet from Hell saying they’d heard of great big constructions built by slave labour, and assumed it was his doing. It wasn’t, obviously. The whole pyramid thing had started decades before he arrived, and all the decision-making happened in Memphis, where he had never been. 

Ever. 

Not in fourteen hundred years. And he certainly wasn’t going to go now, with the Angel there.

The Angel who he was not thinking about.

“Crawly,” said Dagon. 

“Yeah. Sor—so terrific, that. Glad to hear it. Took a lot of, er, convincing. To get ol’ Khufu to do something that… bad.”

Dagon squinted at him. “Lord Beelzebub has asked to meet you,” she said. “Zze wants to give you a commendation.”

“Does zze? I suppose we ought to keep zzem waiting.”

Dagon smiled with far too many teeth. “Not if you want to keep your limbs.”

Crawly covered a wince and pushed off the chair to sway to his feet. “Right,” he said. “Where is zze, then?”

“In zzer throne room.”

Crawly cursed. Hell’s geography was still iffy, but it had been largely the same on his last two visits. Maybe a few rooms swapped, but not too far off. Which was helpful, because he knew where to go. Trouble was, if he remembered correctly, Beelzebub’s throne room was across one of the torture fields from where he was. 

He gave Dagon an abbreviated version of his signature bow, then turned and opened the door. 

Dagon’s laugh echoed down the hall after him. “Bad luck,” she called. 

He skidded to the end of the hall, nearly running into an under-Demon carrying something Crawly couldn’t identify and _definitely_ didn’t want to. 

The Demon screeched at him, but didn’t attack. 

A sign on the wall indicated the way to Beelzebub’s throne room. It pointed the opposite direction to the way he thought it was. Crawly ignored the sign and kept running. 

Nobody’d put up accurate signage in Hell, would they? 

“What’s got into you?” someone called from an open doorway. 

Crawly didn’t spare them a glance. 

The one and only good thing—well, not good thing. The only _helpful_ thing about the torture fields was how organized they were. Crawly wasn’t sure when it happened, but sometime between when the first humans Hell had jurisdiction over died and his second-to-last trip down, they’d been organized. 

It didn’t make them any more pleasant, and the organization wasn’t the most intuitive, but they were, unlike most of Hell, soundly navigable. 

He reached the other end and stopped, panting, in front of the two guard Demons who flanked Beelzebub’s throne room. One looked mostly human, with the beak and wings of a vulture. The other looked like what would happen if someone handed a bear and a poisonous frog to a—never mind, not a good thing to imagine. Fur, and brightly colored slimy skin. 

“What are you doing?” The vulture one asked.

Crawly held up a finger without looking at them, trying to catch his breath. Couldn’t go into the throne room like this.

“That’s not a human, is it?” The bear-frog one asked.

“No,” said the vulture one. “Don’t think so, anyway.” 

Crawly recovered himself and gave them his very, very best Demonic scowl. “I am not _human_ ,” he said with venom.* “I have an audience with Lord Beelzebub.”

(* Literal venom. Something about running across Hell made his fangs uppity.)

“Who’re you, then?”

“Izz that the Demon Crawzly?” Beelzebub’s voice called. “Let them in or I’ll have you zzautéed and zzerved to the Dark Counzzil.”

“Yes, your disgrace,” said the guards in practiced unison, and opened the doors.


	147. 2552 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to both minor character death and slavery.

_2552 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_. 

Aziraphale knocked at the door of what had once been Japheth’s house. He wasn’t expecting him to still be living there, not really. The poor man would be over five hundred years old now, if he was indeed alive.

Still, it felt wrong not to try, at least. Egypt was nice, but the last few decades weighed on him. The constant reminder of what the Demon had done loomed in the distance, all white limestone and gold capstones. A twisted reminder of all the evil in the world. 

And another of the horrible things was on the way! Djedefre and Khafre hadn’t had the sense to stop the whole business. He’d considered going to court, but with foreign relations what they were, and everyone still assuming he was Sumerian… well, it hadn’t seemed a good idea. 

The door opened and a young human looked out at him. Or, he assumed they were young. If they were part of Japheth’s family, appearances were often not quite reliable as indicators of age. 

“Who are you?”

They didn’t use the customary greeting, he noted. He’d had the misfortune to encounter it twice since arriving in the city. 

“Asir-fell,” he said. “I’m looking for a Japheth?”

The human frowned. “Does he know you?”

‘ _Does_ he _know_ you,’ in the present tense! Aziraphale resisted a rather strong urge to begin beaming as broadly as his face would allow him. 

“I hope so,” said Aziraphale. “Is he in?”

“Yes,” the human said. “Give me a minute. What did you say your name was?”

“Aziraphale,” he said. Seemed silly to keep up the alias when they’d already forgotten it.

The human nodded quickly and shut the door to go back inside.

Aziraphale stood on the doorstep, and allowed himself a small smile. Japheth was still alive, then! He must be a terribly old man, but of course, Aziraphale knew that before he came. 

He wouldn’t hang about, of course. Much better to see the dear fellow alive one last time and leave it at that. Ur was a big city these days. He would be able to avoid Japheth with little trouble.

The door opened again. The young human beckoned and shut the door before leading him into the house. “He’ll see you. He said to warn you that he’s very old.” The last bit, they said with confusion, as though they didn’t understand how anyone wouldn’t know Japheth was old.

“I’m quite aware,” said Aziraphale. 

They arrived at Japheth’s bedroom and the young one opened the door a crack. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” They hurried away.   
Aziraphale took a deep breath and exhaled, steeling himself for the worst. 

Well, not the worst. But something rather bad. Rattling breath and whatnot. 

Then he went in.

Japheth looked up from the tablet he seemed to have been reading in bed as Aziraphale came in. He was terribly old, that much was true. His sparse white hair was close-cropped, rather against the modern styles Aziraphale had seen, and his brown skin was embellished in swirls upon swirls of new wrinkles.

“Aziraphale,” Japheth said, voice full of wonder. “You haven’t aged at all.”

“Occupational hazard, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale allowed himself another smile and went to the bedside. “How are you, dear boy?”

“I’ve been better,” said Japheth with a sad smile. “Much better. But I am very pleased to see you. I didn’t think you’d come back in time.”

“It’s lucky I did,” said Aziraphale with a failed attempt at a laugh. “How is Adataneses?”

“She died. Three years ago now.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. He looked down at the blankets. “I’m so terribly sorry to hear it.”

Japheth shrugged. “It’s been three years.”

“Still. Three years is very little against five hundred. I know that. When Adam died, Eve was distraught for quite a while. Every minute, in fact, of the six years before she passed too.”

“It’s our lot,” said Japheth. “We learn to live with it.”

“I suppose you do.”

“Don’t you?”

Aziraphale shook his yet. “Not quite yet, I think. Not quite.”

“Will you be staying long?”

“In Ur, I imagine so.” He paused. “But I don’t believe I’ll be back here.”

“Not used to it?”

“Not as such.”

Japheth reached out a hand and took Aziraphale’s. 

The man’s poor fingers were dreadfully cold. 

“Do the other Angels keep you company?” Japheth asked quietly.

Aziraphale chuckled. “Of course not.” What an absurd idea. “Angels don’t need companionship.”

“If you say so.” 

He risked looking at Japheth’s expression and glanced away when his eyes began prickling. His body had terribly impertinent reactions, sometimes. That was all emotions were, really, wasn’t it? Bodies reacting? Chemicals and whatnot.

“It sounds as though I should say good-bye, then,” said Japheth. “Since you won’t be back.”

“Oh. If you’d like.”

“I’d like to speak with you a bit longer, if you can spare the time.”

“I rather think I can.”

“We’ll wait to say good-bye, then,” said Japheth. “For a bit.”

“That sounds lovely.”


	148. 2538 BC - Memphis, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mismanagement of cats.

_2538 BC. Memphis, Egypt_.

Crawly held up a finger. “So you’re saying you need more money?”

Inkaef, the cat breeder Crawly’d been tempting for the past two months, nodded. “I just need to sell a few more cats before the tax collectors arrive.”

“How would you do that?”

Inkaef moaned and dropped his head into his hands. “I don’t know,” he said.

Out of Inkaef’s line of sight, Crawly rolled his eyes. “Come on, think about it. There’s bound to be _something_ you can do.”

“There’s no way to get more customers in here. And I can’t very well force them to buy two apiece.”

“Why not?” 

Inkaef looked at him, apparently solely to give him an incredulous look. “I can’t force them to do anything.”

“Could you… make it more pleasant for them to have two?” 

“What d’you mean?”

“I don’t know,” Crawly said. “Why would you buy a second cat?”

“I already own seventeen cats. A second isn’t the problem.”

One of them yowled from the other room as if to prove his point.

Crawly made a subtle gesture behind his back, and the cat that had been responsible for the yowl found itself stuck inside a basket. Confused meowing was less distracting, when the collected noises of sixteen other cats were ongoing.

“Why would you get more cats?”

“I suppose if they were a different kind. I’ve heard of another breed down south. But that doesn’t help—I can’t afford to invest in more cats. I’m trying to get out of debt, not dig deeper.”

Crawly sighed. “I’m not suggesting you buy new cats. What if they just—I don’t know. _Seemed_ different.”

“Different how?” 

“I don’t know. You’re the cat-man here.” Crawly resisted grimacing. Sometimes,* even all his years of practice thinking up clever phrases didn’t pay off.

(* Crawly had an ongoing list of words and phrases to avoid. Highlights included ‘sheep-scented perfume,’ ‘Beelzebub’s knickers,’ ‘susurrus,’ and ‘God’s prize chickens.’ Some were bad ideas, some were controversial, and some just had far too many ‘s’ sounds. The last one, used in reference to the humans who survived the Flood, led Aziraphale to pointedly ignore Crawly for two and a half years in the 2980’s.)

Inkaef ran a hand over his face. “I suppose… I could dye some of them. Give them a special name, and sell them for a higher price.”

“Sounds like a decent plan to me.” Or a diabolical plan, but who was counting, really? “Will raising prices get enough money?”

Inkaef, who’d been staring off into the middle distance, snapped his fingers. “I know. I’ll catch some wild ones.”

“That’s a terr—I mean, how would that help? Aren’t the wild ones a little—y’know.” Crawly curled a hand into a claw and made a half-hearted scratching gesture. 

“Exactly,” said Inkaef. “They look just like my tamed cats, right?”

“I guess,” said Crawly. 

“I’ll catch them. Take a week or two, see if I can get them to calm down enough that they seem the same at a distance. In the meantime, I’ll dye some of my tamed cats. Then, when customers come in, they’ll either pay more to begin with for a black cat, or—” he smirked— “they’ll buy a wild cat and take it home. When they take it home and it escapes or causes issues, they’ll have to get a new one, and I’ll sell them a second, tamed cat.”

Crawly grinned. Nothing quite like the satisfaction of a bad job well done. “I like it.”


	149. 2529 BC - Memphis, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to adultery.

_2529 BC. Memphis, Egypt_.

Crawly drew up behind Inkaef, who was engaged in conversation with a pair of young women Crawly recognized vaguely as members of his family. “’Scuse me,” he said. “Inkaef.”

Inkaef turned. “What is it?”

“There’s someone here I want you to meet. The bloke I mentioned. In the limestone trade?”

“Ah,” said Inkaef, and turned back to his—cousins? Sisters? Bizarrely young aunts?—with a smile. “Excuse me. Crawly promised an introduction.”

The relatives nodded, and after what Crawly judged as a suitable number of pleasantries, he tugged Inkaef off toward Ankhaf.

He’d been trying to tempt Ankhaf for about a year now, but the man was frustratingly virtuous. He wouldn’t hear of cheating his customers, and was beginning to seem suspicious of Crawly, which was more than a little insulting.

Because of all that, Crawly had decided it was time to try a different tack. Inkaef was well and solidly tempted, and liable to be a bad influence in his own right. He was also rather charismatic, as far as Crawly had seen. 

With any luck, Inkaef’s bad influence would supplement Ankhaf’s, and they could all get on with their lives. 

“Ankhaf,” said Crawly as he and Inkaef reached the side of the room where he was waiting. “This is my friend I told you about.”

Ankhaf turned. “Inkaef, was it?” He looked him up and down slowly, before meeting his eyes and extending a hand in greeting. “I am Ankhaf.”

“Inkaef—that’s right.” Inkaef accepted the handshake. “I’ve heard good things about you.”

“And I you,” said Ankhaf, “though they all pale in comparison to seeing you in the flesh.”

Inkaef laughed and finally released the handshake, scratching the back of his head. “I could say the same of you.”

They paused a bit too long for an ordinary conversation as the two men watched each other. 

Bless it. Crawly hadn’t meant to play _matchmaker_. There was probably a ban in Hell against all non-adulterous matchmaking. That sort of thing seemed much too… loving. 

Still, it might help with Crawly’s temptation. He’d just have to leave out the bits he didn’t want. 

“Crawly tells me you deal in limestone?” Inkaef asked.

“That’s right. Only the finest limestone, mined in Tura and brought here to grace our monuments.”

“Which ones?”

“All sorts. Temples, statues… even the pyramid of Pharaoh Khafre.”

“You’ll have to show me,” said Inkaef. 

“I think I will.” Ankhaf extended an arm. “There’s one a short walk away, if you’d like to see?”

“I’d love to.”

They left arm-in-arm, talking quietly between themselves.

So that was that, then. Crawly watched them go, scowling, then found a quiet corner to miracle himself home. 


	150. 2516 BC - Memphis, Egypt

_2516 BC. Memphis, Egypt._

Crawly swirled the wine he’d been poured absently, tapping his foot as he waited. He was in the sitting room of Inkaef and Ankhaf’s home, waiting for them to show. He wasn’t sure he’d ever done this—left long-term temptees before they died on him. 

He’d gotten summons from Hell in the wee hours that morning. It burned through his finest blanket and put him in a rotten mood for most of the day. He had just miracled a new blanket, of course, but as a Demon, he reserved the right to be irrationally cross.

Finally, Inkaef swept in. He’d been putting on airs since the wedding, even though Crawly knew they were both aware that he remembered when Inkaef was just a sad man with thirty cats and a scratched hand. 

“Crawly. We weren’t expecting you,” he said. “My husband is tied up with work at the moment, but he’ll be in soon.”

Crawly waved a hand. “That’s all right. I just came to say that I’m leaving.”

“Leaving?” Inkaef’s shoulders slumped a little. “Where are you going?”

“Akkad,” he said. “Place called Babs or Bebsy or something. Bay-bell? Babe of the Bay?”

Inkaef’s jaw dropped open. “Akkad! Why would you possibly need to go to Akkad?”

“Work,” he said simply.

“Work? Aren’t you a— an… something?”

Crawly had never bothered to come up with an actual profession this go-round. He’d thought he was being lazy, but maybe he was just being prudent.

If anyone asked, it was planned.

“My, er. Grandad’s merchant business was passed down to me? I’ve kept it going from here for a few years, but I’m needed back… in headquarters.”

“In Akkad? I thought you were from Giza?”

“Not my grandad,” said Crawly quickly.

The door opened again and Ankhaf strode in. “Crawly! What are you doing here?”

“He’s moving away,” Inkaef said. “To Akkad.”

“To _Akkad_?” Ankaf glanced between them. 

“Don’t wear it out,” snipped Crawly. “Yes, I’m going to Akkad.”

“You’ll be back though,” said Inkaef. “Won’t you? You’re a young man yet, surely—”

“No,” said Crawly. “I won’t be back.” Not in their lifetimes, anyway. 

Ankhaf gaped at him. 

Satan, why did his body have to be like this. It was doing all sorts of inconvenient things. Lump in his throat, weight on his chest. Eurgh. He’d try to shake it off if that wouldn’t make Inkaef and Ankhaf more suspicious of him than they already were. 

“You— never? Crawly, that’s ridiculous,” said Inkaef. “You can’t just leave.”

“I have to. Tomorrow, in fact. Going with the first caravan to Uruk, then back up the Buranuna.” Whatever was going on in Bebil, Hell wanted him there as fast as he could get there without just magicking himself over. 

They’d been rather down on magicking around lately. He blamed Hastur. Not for any particular reason, just because Hastur’d got on his nerves last time they were on Earth. 

“Crawly,” said Inkaef, holding out a hand and moving toward him. “That’s terrible.”

“What?” Crawly looked between Inkaef and Ankhaf, who were closing in on him. “I’ll be fine.”

“Shush,” said Inkaef, and then they were both hugging him. 

He’d never actually let anyone do it before. If anyone asked about this time, he’d say they jumped him. The truth—not that he’d ever tell anyone—was not too far off: he was surprised.

When they pulled away, his eyes had decided to quit functioning and get all foggy instead.

“We’re going to miss you,” said Inkaef softly. “Be safe.”

“Right,” said Crawly, backing away and blinking more than he’d done in the past week. “I’ll just be going then.”

Ankhaf had an arm around his husband’s shoulders. “We won’t forget what you did for us.”

Crawly reached the door and fumbled for the latch, then opened it. “Bye!” He called vaguely, then ran out and shut the door behind him. 


	151. 2512 BC - Babel, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for referenced slavery.

_2512 BC. Babel, Mesopotamia_.

Aziraphale shielded his eyes from the sun, looking up at the tower. It was massive, truly. Taller than Khufu’s pyramid, and all the better for not making him feel ill when he looked at it. No, all the humans here seemed genuinely pleased to be working, which was wonderfully refreshing.

A pity it was all blasphemous. 

Though certainly no more so than the pyramids, with all those humans thinking they were gods. 

“A beauty, isn’t it?” A human asked from behind him. “Most people have to sit down.”

“It is quite tall.”

“Came by way of Egypt, eh?” The human shook their head, chuckling. “The folks who’ve been there aren’t too impressed just yet, but you will be, mark my words.”

Aziraphale gave them a faltering smile. “I’m Asir-fell.”

“Good to meet you— or, what do you lot say? May the gods keep you in good health.”

Aziraphale’s smile dropped all the way. “And you are?”

“Pathmanathan. I arrived from Dholavira a few months ago.”

“Goodness, that’s quite a journey from here,” said Aziraphale.

“Not sure it’s longer than from Sumer to Egypt and back again,” he said. “I assume?”

“Yes. I lived in Ur originally,” said Aziraphale. “Spent some time in Memphis, and I heard about all this so I thought I’d come back to the area.”

“Sounds like an adventure,” Pathmanathan said agreeably.

“Quite. Is everyone here from so far afield?” The humans bustling about did seem rather more various than in most places.

“No,” said Pathmanathan. “Plenty from the city—Kish? But there are a number of places represented. All over Sumer and Akkad, of course. I’ve met people from Jericho, Harappa, Memphis, Kalibangan, Nubia, Thinis, Mohenjo-daro... someplace called Crete, too. And one from a city in the east—Liangzhu?”

“Oh, really?” He hadn’t had an opportunity to see how the people in Liangzhu were getting on. “All to see the tower?”

“And to work on it,” said Pathmanathan importantly. “It’s a group effort. Everyone’s pitching in. That’s how it’s doing so well.”

“I see,” said Aziraphale. This would be a difficult assignment, no doubt about it. Still, he had faith it would all go according to the Plan. “How tall—”

He stopped. There was a Demon here, too. Not just any Demon, either, he didn’t think. He frowned, concentrating. No, it was definitely Crawly. 

“Asir-fell?” Pathmanathan asked. “You hanging in over there?”

He looked up, smoothing down his clothes. “Yes, quite. Tip-top, in fact. Absolutely jolly.” 

The poor fellow—that is, evil fiend—was probably assigned to the area. With a bit of luck, they’d just… manage to avoid one another. 

He smiled. “What was it you were saying?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pathmanathan is from Dholavira, a city that was part of the Indus Valley Civilization. I tried to make sure that all the other cities he mentions also existed at this point in time.   
> I’ve placed Babel near what would eventually become Babylon, though that didn’t properly exist yet in 2512.


	152. 2495 BC - Babel, Mesopotamia

_2495 BC. Babel, Mesopotamia_.

Crawly leaned over the balcony of a lower level of the tower, looking out over the surrounding town. He could see the humans meandering around, one line of them bringing bags of mud bricks to the base. 

This was probably one of his strangest assignments so far, mainly because he couldn’t for the life of him work out exactly what was so wrong with it. Up there with the bit in the Garden, probably. Hell had told him to go help the humans along and encourage them, but they didn’t really need any help. 

They were just being kind to each other, was the thing. They all wanted the tower built, so they all got along. In fact, if Crawly did any normal temptations, it would probably make things go worse for the tower. They were all talking to each other and sorting out disputes without issues and working toward a common goal. 

In Crawly’s opinion, it was good—whatever Hell thought about trying to outdo God. Most of these humans didn’t even believe in God in the first place. 

Not that his opinion mattered. 

Really, the whole thing made him feel a bit useless. Any so-called tempting he tried to do consisted of walking up to a human, suggesting they build the tower higher, and the human agreeing whole-heartedly. There wasn’t any point to it. No minimizing repercussions, no carefully modulated body language, no subtly leading questions! 

No effort or style or _point_ , at all. 

He pushed off the balcony and headed for the stairs. The view was nice, but he didn’t feel like it anymore. 

Technically, he could always help the humans. But that was pointless too, not to mention hot and uncomfortable. And the fact that it would be actual work. Him carrying some bricks wouldn’t get it done any faster. Not perceptibly, anyway. 

He’d descended two levels when a wave of divine presence washed over him, making his skin prickle. 

And then there was that. He turned and began running up the stairs. 

Aziraphale showed up four years after he did and immediately began meddling. Not to much success, thank Satan, but it wasn’t so much the meddling as his presence. Crawly didn’t like having to turn and run the other direction whenever Aziraphale showed up. 

It was tedious, for one, and totally unnecessary. They’d had a treaty before, but when Crawly tried this time around, Aziraphale just shook his head sadly and started glowing. And he had the audacity to act like _he_ was the victim. 

Five levels up, the divine presence faded and Crawly went to slump against the wall, panting. This whole assignment was ridiculous. The tower just got taller, which was fine, and the humans all had a grand old time while he got chased around town by an infuriatingly hesitant Angel. 

Ugh. As long as he didn’t have to go another twenty years here.


	153. 2488 BC - Babel, Mesopotamia

_2488 BC. Babel, Mesopotamia._

Aziraphale ran through the streets of Babel to the tower. He’d just returned from a trip to Heaven, and couldn’t waste another moment. He just wished he’d better understood what was at stake if they humans didn’t stop building… though it was too late now to change that.

He reached the base. “Excuse me,” he said to one of the humans who stood in front of the staircase. “You need to stop construction, straightaway.”

One of them turned to him, scoffing. “No. Why would we do that? Who are you?”

“Asir-fell, and I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t terribly important.” He glanced up at the tower, where it intersected a low-hanging cloud. “Please. Something’s going to go very wrong if you don’t stop immediately. I can explain when it’s done.”

“Even if I believed you—which I don’t—there wouldn’t be anything I could do.” The human shrugged. “It takes a long time to get all the way up there, these days.”

Oh dear. He glanced between the human and the stairs. If he didn’t stop them soon, everything would be ruined. “Terribly sorry.”

Aziraphale turned and began running up the stairs. 

At each landing, he shouted at the humans to stop, then kept going. He’d only made it up six levels when he sensed divine energy gathering above and began taking them two at a time, ignoring his human body’s notions about exhaustion. 

Halfway up the tower, he nearly collided with Crawly, who was going the other direction. He gave the Demon a frantic little wave, and kept going.

Two from the top, the power was building. It was about to happen. He glanced up, and back at where he was, then miracled himself to the top. 

A small group of humans were up there, laying bricks as though Heaven weren’t about to ruin everything they’d worked for. 

“You have to stop,” Aziraphale said, but between the miracle and running up so many stairs, he was almost out of breath. He caught the arm of a nearby human. “Tell them to stop, please.”

The human frowned, but raised a hand. “Stop, everyone!”

Around them, the builders froze, turning to look at them in confusion. 

The first human turned to look at Aziraphale. “Now. Why are we stopped?”

Aziraphale caught his breath, removed his hand from their arm, and straightened up. “Something’s going to happen if you don’t. Heaven’s a bit… displeased with the whole—” he waved a hand at the tower and the sky around them— “thing.”

The mist from the clouds around them froze. Aziraphale turned, and looked at the sky. “They’re about to understand! You don’t have to do this.”

Divine power coursed down around him. Then the clouds cleared, revealing a blue sky. 

Oh, no.

Aziraphale turned to the human he’d been speaking with. They seemed fine, as far as he could tell. “Erm… sorry about that.”

The human blinked at him, opened their mouth, and—

Aziraphale didn’t understand them. 

He patted them on the shoulder, trying to smile. “It’s all right. You’ll be all right. I’m terribly sorry.” He turned to the other builders. “Do any of you understand me?”

Below, he could hear the sounds of frightened humans shouting. He couldn’t understand any of it. The builders were still staring at him blankly.

He turned and began walking down the stairs in a daze. 

At each level, he called in to see if anyone understood him, and each time, no one did. 

By the time he reached the fourth level from the bottom, a few of the humans seemed to have found others who understood them, and Aziraphale was getting worried.

At the third level, he stepped just inside. “Erm, pardon me, but does anyone understand me?” 

“Oh, _shit_ ,” a familiar voice said. “I do.”

Aziraphale turned to see Crawly. “Oh. Dear me.”

“You can say that again,” said Crawly. His expression was wary. “You’re not going to smite me, are you?”

Bother. He ought to. He really ought to. This whole thing was Crawly’s fault, after all. He’d been there before Aziraphale, after all. 

But… he hadn’t understood any of the humans yet. Not a single one. And it didn’t make sense to smite the one being he was currently able to talk to. At least until he found more.

He found himself shaking his head. “No. No, I won’t.”

Crawly nodded. “Yeah. Okay. No one up there understood you?” He jerked a thumb toward the ceiling.

Aziraphale frowned. What a strange conclusion to jump to. “I haven’t been back since this happened. It’s been less than an hour.”

Crawly shook his head, hissing. “No, I mean upstairs. Literal stairs. Do we need to go back and see if anyone understands us?”

“Oh. No.”

“Right. No one here either,” said Crawly, gesturing to the room they were in. “Come on, then.”

He followed Crawly through the rest of the tower and around town, asking everyone they met if they were understood. No one did, though, and by evening they retired to Crawly’s home.

“So that’s it, then?” Crawly threw himself onto a chair, adopting a rather unorthodox posture.

“It would seem so,” said Aziraphale. “I imagine we can ask around, though.”

Crawly groaned. “Jussst my luck.”

“I am not pleased with it either,” Aziraphale reminded him. He was a Demon, after all. He didn’t want to spend any length of time with a Demon if he could help it. Though Crawly was admittedly better than most. 

“But you won’t smite me,” Crawly said.

“Or discorporate you, no. It hardly seems logical to discorporate the only person to whom I can speak. I trust you will do the same? Or rather, not do the same?”

“’Course,” said Crawly, then froze. “I mean, yeah, I can live with that. It’ll be hard, but I think I can resist.”

Aziraphale huffed. Typical Demon. Still, with a bit of luck, they would work out how to understand the humans, and he could be on his way again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously considered tagging this "There's Only One ~~Bed~~ Language" but decided it would look very strange without context, and not actually be helpful for people searching fics.


	154. 2477 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to torture and emotional abuse (Heaven).

_2477 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia._

Crawly knocked on the door of Aziraphale’s house. “Can I come in? It’s me.”

There were some banging noises, and the muffled sound of Aziraphale muttering, until he opened the door. He looked Crawly up and down, frowning. “What do you want?”

“What d’you think I want?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and stepped to the side. “Come inside, fiend, before someone sees you.”

Crawly sighed, but went inside. They still hadn’t found anyone who spoke the same language as them—outside their respective head offices,* at least—which meant that, for the past eleven years, they’d been forced to meet up to work out linguistic issues. 

(* The news of what happened at Babel had thrown the lower ranks of Heaven and Hell into disarray as administrators panicked over how exactly to administer temptations or divine guidance without speaking the same language as the humans. Hell was opting for a ‘sink or swim’ technique in which they sent Demons to Earth, and if they didn’t learn the language in a few years, they were sent back to Hell and fed to the Hell-hounds. Heaven was still deliberating.)

The first few years had been the worst. Aziraphale made it clear at the slightest opportunity that he ought to smite Crawly, though he hadn’t even come close. Except for the incident with the goat and the linen, but they didn’t discuss that.

Once the door closed, Crawly went over to the chair at the side of the room he’d begun to think of as his, though he’d never call it that, and sat down. “What’s _bahar_?” 

“A potter,” said Aziraphale. “One who makes pots. I don’t see how you didn’t learn that one, what with all your gallivanting around doing evil all day.”

Crawly shrugged. “Didn’t come up. Why, do you think potters are more evil than the rest of them?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Crawly.” Aziraphale sat down at a work table and began examining a clay tablet. “It just seems a rather common term to me for you to have avoided so far.”

“Maybe I forgot it.” He leaned forward. “What’s that, then?”

Aziraphale frowned at his tablet and picked up a stylus to make a note on papyrus he must have miracled from Egypt. He didn’t look at Crawly. 

“What’s that?” Crawly asked, louder. 

Aziraphale had to be deliberately ignoring him. He just hummed and turned the tablet sideways.

“Angel. What’s that?”

“Aziraphale,” said the Angel, absently. 

Crawly growled and walked across the room to sit on the table opposite Aziraphale. He picked up one of the tablets and examined it. He hadn’t put in the effort to learn to read again just yet, but he picked up a few of the more common words. ‘And,’ ‘clay,’ ‘money,’ and that sort of thing. 

Aziraphale took the tablet out of his hands with a scowl. “Really, Crawly.”

“What are you doing?” Crawly asked. 

Aziraphale set his tablet down. “If you must be inside my home without permission, kindly allow me to continue my work unmolested.”

“I’m not _molesting_ you,” Crawly said. “And I’m not kind, so you’re out of luck either way.”

“If you must know,” said Aziraphale, “I’m trying to make a key of sorts. I’ve recommended writing to Heaven, so I’m attempting to adapt cuneiform to… this language. The one we’re speaking.”

“And you’re doing it on papyrus… why?” It always seemed flimsy stuff. Probably get shredded and burned to ashes in the first two hours in Hell. Tablets were much more practical.

Aziraphale looked back at his work. “It’s convenient. And I was taught to write on papyrus before, so it’s what I showed Gabriel.”

Crawly raised his eyebrows. “Right, then.” He paused. “Don’t you think they’d get it if you switched to tablets, since it’s their fault you have to do this in the first place?”

“It’s not their fault.” Aziraphale set his stylus down with a sigh. “Really, I’d have thought you of all people would see that.”

“What? Why?” The power that scrambled up all the languages sure felt divine to him—gave him a mild rash for two days straight—but what did he know?

“It’s mine.” And the strange thing was, Aziraphale seemed genuinely regretful. “It was my job to stop them building the tower. If I’d just worked a bit harder, it could have been avoided.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Crawly. “They weren’t going to stop building for anything.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, no, it was definitely my fault. They said so, right before it happened. You were tempting them to build the thing, it’s my job to thwart you, I failed, and that’s all there is to it.”

“That’s not how fault works,” said Crawly. “Besides, I wasn’t even—” he lowered his voice. “I wasn’t even doing anything.”

“What?” 

“I wasn’t. I showed up after they’d started. I just… hung around and sent reports back implying I was responsible for everything. I didn’t even help build the thing. Honest.”

Aziraphale blinked. “You—Crawly. You lied?”

“Yeah. I’m a Demon, remember?”

“Of course I remember,” Aziraphale snapped. “What, so you’re saying… the humans built it without any Hellish influence?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say without _any_ ,” said Crawly. “But not enough for it to be your fault you didn’t thwart me. You can’t thwart humans, and that was definitely humans. As far as I’m concerned, that was all the fault of whoever did it. Not you. You were down here the whole time.”

“You’re trying to tempt me,” said Aziraphale suddenly. 

“What? No.” 

“I won’t have it,” said Aziraphale, picking up his stylus again. “I am going to ignore you now until you leave.”

“Aziraphale—”

“I am ignoring you.”

Bless it. “I am not tem—”

“I am ignoring you.”

Crawly hissed. “Fine. Be that way.” He got up and went to the door. “Have a nice day,” he said, as sarcastically as he possibly could.

“I am ignoring you,” said Aziraphale again.

Crawly opened the door and stormed out. Bloody stubborn Angel. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I spend two hours scrolling through online Sumerian language dictionnaries trying to find a word suffiently odd Crowley would believably not know it and still fail? Yes. Yes I did. 'Potter' it is.


	155. 2471 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to murder.

_2471 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_.

Aziraphale stood in an alley, trying to appear as though he was meant to be there. Some part of him thought that perhaps it would help if he weren’t dressed in fine linen, but he had to draw the line somewhere. 

He’d been doing a blessing in a part of the city the people who distributed resources cared less for when he heard whispers about a murder plot. Of course, he couldn’t very well stand by with humans planning on killing someone, so here he was. 

There was only one minor problem: he wasn’t entirely sure when it was going to be carried out. He’d been standing in the alley for a few hours now. 

A scuffle broke out across the street and he shrank farther back into the alley. That wouldn’t be what he was waiting for, and there wasn’t any sense in breaking his cover now. Though it did mean he couldn’t see the street… oh, well. He’d move back once the other humans were gone.

Footsteps sounded, and someone raced past him to join him in the alley. 

He turned his head slowly, tensed in case he had to deal with some human hoodlum, only to find— “Crawly?”

Yellow eyes widened, and Crawly stumbled back deeper into the alley. “Aziraphale? What are you doing here?”

And to think he’d thought the Demon was above all that! Clearly, he’d been mistaken in thinking Crawly was better than the rest of his kind. He had an emotional reaction to that he’d rather not think about. 

“So this your doing, I suppose?” He spoke as calmly as he could. “You do realize I will be forced to thwart you.” And perhaps revoke their cease-fire. 

“Thwart—so you want the bloke to die?” 

“Of course I don’t,” said Aziraphale quickly, glancing skyward before turned back to face Crawly. “What an absurd notion.” He paused. “Are you suggesting that you don’t either?”

Crawly’s expression did something strange and twitchy, before it smoothed out again. “I’m all for murder in general, but this guy’s enough of a bastard that he’s worth more to me alive.”

Aziraphale swallowed. What a vile thing to say. Of course, if he said as much, Crawly would just agree... and _smile_ at him. “I hope he’s not quite bad enough to merit that sort of language.”

“And I suppose you know him?”

“Not as such.”

Crawly frowned. “What, so you know the ones planning to off him?”

“Don’t be crude.” Aziraphale sighed. “I overheard them this morning. Making plans.”

Crawly seemed to be at a loss for words for a moment. Then he shut his mouth, and managed to speak. “What, so you just overheard them plotting murder and thought ‘oh, jolly good, I’ll just pop on over and stop them fast as a lickety’?”

“I do not speak like that.”

“Ehh…”

Well, he did, a bit. Still, Crawly was being terribly rude. “I gather you know the… victim, then?”

Crawly snorted. “You could say that. I tempted him.”

“Crawly!” Evidently, he’d tempted the poor fellow so thoroughly someone wanted to kill him. 

“Don’t start,” said Crawly. “He wasn’t a nice man to begin with. I barely had to do anything. Just a few suggestions and some moral support.”

“I’d thank you not to discuss your ‘temptations’ with me.”

“Right. No, no. ’Course not.” Crawly turned to lean against the wall again, about a yard away.

Aziraphale returned to his original position and fixed his gaze on the opposite wall. “How long will it be, then?”

“Hard to say.” He could hear Crawly’s foot shuffling around in the dirt. “Few hours?”

“Oh, good lord.” He’d already been here hours. “Can there be no more certainty than that?”

“If I knew better, I’d have come later,” said Crawly. “Anyway, I still don’t see why you’re here.”

“I’m here to save an innocent man’s life,” he said shortly.

“Hardly innocent, if you ask me.”

Aziraphale sighed. “If you’d like for me to leave, then I must inform you that I will not be dissuaded from saving his life.”

“Oh… no. ’Course not. I mean—sure, you can save his life, but it definitely won’t help the greater good.”

“Forgive me if I don’t trust a Demon’s morals.”

“Ngh—fine.”

“Fine.” Aziraphale crossed his arms. This was going to be a long wait. 


	156. 2460 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

_2460 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_.

Crawly slithered around the edge of a cart to peek out from under it at a small market. He wasn’t totally sure why he was here. 

Or, that wasn’t quite right. 

If somebody asked him, he had an answer. He was doing reconnaissance on his Adversary. Crawly, however, knew that wasn’t actually why he was there. He was good at lying, but not quite good enough to lie to himself that much. 

The thing was, if he was forced to tell the truth… that wasn’t why he was there. And he had an inkling of the real reason he was there, and he didn’t like it one bit. 

But he was good enough at lying to himself to not mess with whatever that was, so he wasn’t going to question it. 

Funny how things worked out like that. 

Across the market, the Angel looked stiff as anything. It was a wonder he got the humans to talk to him at all. Then again, his manner had never staved Cr— _Heaven_ , no.

A small group of raggedly dressed humans were making their way across the marketplace. There was an adult, an adolescent, and a few smaller ones.

The adult went to a stall selling cakes of fried grain, and began speaking, though Crawly couldn’t make out the specifics from where he was. 

Aziraphale drifted over to the human and tapped them on the shoulder. They jerked away from him, acting defensive, but Aziraphale spoke to them, exuding Angelic calm. Which was odd, considering the human probably worshipped Sumerian gods and wouldn’t be affected. Maybe it was an involuntary thing. 

Either way, the human’s expression softened and they let Aziraphale buy the whole family food. 

Crawly could feel the blessing when it happened, rippling out over the market. It prickled a little, but wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d expected it to be. 

Aziraphale was smiling, patting the smallest child on the head. 

He still wore his white hair cropped close, and no beard, in abject disregard for Sumerian styles these days. Actually, Crawly wasn’t sure if he shaved or just didn’t grow a beard. It seemed to Crawly that, if he shaved it, white stubble would show up against the Angel’s brown skin. Which suggested that he just… didn’t grow it.

Before long, Aziraphale sent the family on their way with assurances that they’d find somewhere to live soon, and turned toward the cart Crawly had been hiding under. He wove around a few other lone humans and spoke to the vendor for a moment.

The vendor hurried off in the opposite direction, and Aziraphale cleared his throat. “What, may I ask, are you doing here?”

Crawly slithered out from under the cart and shifted back to his human shape. Only one human saw, and he bared his teeth at them briefly to keep them quiet. 

Only delaying the inevitable, but fun anyway. 

“Crawly.”

“Right. Er, just checking up on you.”

Aziraphale frowned. “I beg your pardon.”

“I mean, making sure you’re not doing anything too good.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, of course.”

Aziraphale didn’t look convinced.

Was it good that he didn’t trust Crawly or bad because it meant he might guess the real reason?

Not that there was another reason. 

“I’m just going to… go, then.” Crawly half-turned on a heel. 

“Have a lovely day, Crawly.”

He paused and turned back, one eyebrow raised. 

Aziraphale looked positively sheepish. “Er, that is—”

“Don’t worry about it, Aziraphale.” Crawly found himself smiling. “They looked happy,” he said. Which was true. No two ways about that. He was just stating a fact.

He walked away before Aziraphale could respond. 


	157. 2452 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to murder.

_2452 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_.

Aziraphale worried the tufts of his kaunakes, refusing to look at Crawly. He could feel his gaze on him, open and hopeful. Or at least, that’s what it would be if Crawly were a human. What’s it called when a Demon’s expression is a far too convincing facsimile of a human one?

“I—I don’t think that’s a good idea, Crawly. I was the one who asked for smiting to be reinstated in the first place, you recall.” And Sandalphon, whoever that was, but Crawly didn’t know that and there was no use in cluttering up the conversation with extraneous elements.

“I remember,” said Crawly. “But that was centuries ago! You don’t have to be bound by what Aziraphale said fourteen hundred years ago.”

He was tempting him. He was sure of it. Or, nearly sure. He would be sure, if Crawly didn’t look so… well, so earnest. 

“Be that as it may… well, it doesn’t seem right. It’s you I meant to smite in the first place.”

If he didn’t know better, Aziraphale would have thought Crawly flinched at that.

“You know I didn’t do that,” said Crawly. “I didn’t tempt Cain to kill Abel. You know that.”

“I do,” said Aziraphale in spite of himself. “It’s… it’s… think of how it would look to Heaven!”

“An Angel agreeing not to be violent any more than absolutely necessary? I’d have thought they’d be all over that.”

Aziraphale scowled. “You’re twisting words, Crawly.”

“I can’t very well do anything else.” Crawly’s expression was pained. “All I’m asking is to keep up what we’ve already been doing. For more than thirty years now, and longer after the Flood.”

He sighed. Crawly wasn’t wrong. If agreeing not to discorporate a Demon was inherently bad, he was already in trouble. And given that doing anything actually _bad_ would most likely become apparent quite quickly, courtesy of the Almighty, it seemed it wasn’t bad. 

“Aziraphale?” Crawly’s voice was gentle. 

He turned to look back at Crawly. “Fine,” he said. “Yes, I won’t smite you.”

Crawly grinned, looking more genuinely happy than he’d seen him since… well, since before Cain died.

It was probably rather pleasing to know one would not not be smote in the near future. 

“I won’t either,” said Crawly. “Discorporate you. In case you were worried.”

“Ah. Thank you.”

Crawly frowned.

Oh, dear. 


	158. 2444 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to torture.

_2444 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_.

Crawly hunched his shoulders forward, trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible. The rain helped—thick sheets of the stuff blurring the world around him. If he were human, the darkness would help too, but he had a feeling that wouldn’t help in this particular case.

He’d felt a Demon enter the city a few hours earlier. It wouldn’t really be much cause for concern, except that Demons didn’t speak Sumerian—or Akkadian, for that matter, which was becoming increasingly prevalent, even this far south—and that suggested the Demon had something other than a temptation in mind. 

And Crawly wasn’t ordinarily very territorial, but really. He’d been in Ur for sixty years, and a Demon making a big, obnoxious spectacle wouldn’t do him any favours. In fact, it would probably make his work harder. Which was why he needed to track the Demon down and talk them out of whatever rash thing they wanted to do.

He was getting close now, he was sure of it. Trouble was, he didn’t much like where they were. This was Aziraphale’s neighbourhood, and as much as Crawly’d like to think that was a coincidence, it seemed very, very unlikely. 

Crawly paused at a crossroads to peer around the corner. A short figure dressed in standard-issue robes was prowling up and down the street. They clearly hadn’t worked out which house belonged to Aziraphale yet, which was… which was.

“Oi!” Crawly shouted in Sumerian. “Who’re you?”

The figure turned. “What?”

They spoke what Crawly’d come to think of as his and Aziraphale’s language. Which made sense, but it still felt wrong hearing someone else speak it on Earth who wasn’t him or the Angel. 

“What are you here for?” Crawly asked, in the same language.

“Discorporating an Angel,” the Demon said. “What are you here for?”

“Don’t do that.” Oh, no, what was he saying? Still, he’d said it now. 

“What?”

“I said, don’t discorporate that Angel.”

That seemed to have stopped the Demon, at least. Long enough for Crawly to walk up to them, scowling. 

The Demon looked deeply confused. “Why not?”

“That’s my job,” said Crawly.

“You haven’t done it yet,” the Demon pointed out.

“I’ve neutralized him,” Crawly said. Which wasn’t true, strictly speaking, but what sort of Demon told the truth all the time? “If you attack him now, he’ll smite us both and we’ll be back in Hell with nothing gained and Beelzebub out for our skins.”

The Demon blinked twice. A feeler reached out from behind their back and scratched their head. “How’d you do that?”

Crawly put on his best arrogant grin. “Tricks of the trade,” he said through gritted teeth.

Satan, what was he getting himself into? He could just leave and let them discorporate Aziraphale. It wasn’t against the terms of their cease-fire, technically. The thing was, Aziraphale almost certainly knew he was here. And if Aziraphale knew Crawly’d been talking to another Demon, who subsequently discorporated him… well, it would look like Crawly hadn’t cared about it, or worse, helped the Demon. 

And Hell help him, he could imagine Aziraphale’s face if that happened and he didn’t like it one bit. 

“So… you want me to leave the Angel… alone?” The Demon seemed almost unable to grasp the concept.

“Yes. Leave the Angel to me. I’ll deal with him.”

“What do I do, then?” The Demon asked. “My shift’s ten years and if I don’t do something while I’m here, they’ll eviscerate me.”

Crawly grimaced. “Yeah, that’s nasty.” He paused. “Erm. I’ve got it.”

“What?”

“Go someplace else. Er, Mohenjo-daro, Crete, someplace far away. If you talk to humans enough, you’ll start to understand them and then you can tempt them properly.”

“In ten years?”

“If you talk to them enough, you’ll get the hang of it soon enough.”

The Demon looked dubious. “You want me to avoid a totally unprotected Angel and go learn a language instead?”

“I want you to not be smote by a very powerful Angel and go do something so you don’t end up discorporated, blessed, and tortured for centuries.” He paused. “If you _want_ for your body to be reduced to a smoking, holy crater while your consciousness is sent back to Hell and put at… who’s in charge of you?”

“Duke Ligur,” said the Demon tremulously.

Poor bugger. Still, worked out for Crawly. “If you want your body to be smote into oblivion while you’re sent back to Hell and put at _Ligur’s_ mercy… be my guest. I’ll show you to Az—the Angel’s door, and you can deal with the consequences.”

“Where did you say I should go?” 

Crawly grinned. “What about Crete? Go north and west a bit. Biggest island in an oversized bay. Can’t miss it.”

The Demon nodded hurriedly and snapped their fingers, vanishing in a sulphur-scented cloud. 

Crawly turned away, trying to resist the urge to grin. 

Then white light filled the windows of Aziraphale’s house, and the Angel was looking at him.

Well, shit. Had he seen all that? Some Demon he was, doing the opposite of what he was meant to do while an Angel listened in. 

He waved, trying to force a smile onto his face even as something sank in his stomach. 

Aziraphale nodded once, then the light went out and left Crawly alone in the rain. 


	159. 2431 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied/referenced slavery.

_2431 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_.

Aziraphale put down his stylus to scowl at the door. Crawly was out there, knocking. As if he didn’t understand that Aziraphale shouldn’t have a Demon in his home in the first place. Or that Aziraphale was busy with his translation work. 

Crawly knocked again. 

He huffed and stood to go open the door. “Really, Crawly. Get inside before someone sees you.”

At least he had the decency to look chagrined. 

“I hope it’s important,” said Aziraphale. 

“Eh… it might be?” Crawly sighed. “I just came to let you know that I’ve decided to leave.”

“Leave?” And go where? He couldn’t exactly leave Sumer. “Where to?”

“Egypt. I had to leave to go to Babel, and it was my last assignment, so I thought I’d go… see how it was going.”

“Ah.” Of course—the pyramids. How dreadful. Though, that was what came of—of speaking to a Demon regularly. “I see,” he said. 

Crawly nodded. “Seemed a bit odd, both of us being here together so much and not being… fighty.”

“Indubitably,” said Aziraphale. Although, it was his job to thwart Crawly. Perhaps he could dissuade him from going to Egypt!

“Won’t it be difficult, learning a whole other language?” 

“Probably,” said Crawly. “Not looking forward to it, that’s for sure.”

“Why not go to Uruk instead? That’s where you stayed for quite a while, isn’t it?” And that way, he could thwart him if necessary.

There was a very strange emotion written on Crawly’s face. One Aziraphale had a distinct feeling he shouldn’t think too hard about. 

“Why?” Crawly finally said after spluttering for a few moments. 

“Why do you think, Crawly.”

“Oh,” said Crawly. “Right. Well. I’m going to Egypt.”

“Must you?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Crawly said, voice oddly controlled. “It was my last assignment. Memphis. ’Course, I was meant to be stopping you, but…”

Aziraphale frowned. “If you’re meant to be stopping me, it seems it would make more sense for you to stay here.”

“That’s not the point, Aziraphale.”

“Very well.” He paused. “Glad to hear I’ve chased you from the city.” It would look excellent on his next report. 

“Yeah. Very thwarted, me.” Crawly sniffed. “I’ll be off, then.”

“Are you leaving now?”

Crawly shrugged. “Thought I ought to. Get started learning the language sooner rather than later, and all.”

“Ah.” He swallowed. “I suppose I ought to say good-bye, then.”

“Ngh. Yeah, guess so.”

“Good-bye, Crawly.”

Crawly nodded. “Bye, Aziraphale.”

They stared at one another awkwardly for a moment, before Crawly abruptly spun on his heel, walked to the door, opened it, and closed it soundly behind him. 

Well. Aziraphale sighed. What an odd conversation. Best not think about all that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recently learned that the Great Pyramids were not, in fact, built by slave labor. Unfortunately, I don't have the time at the moment to go back and rewrite the whole pyramid subplot, so this story shall just be stuck with historical inaccuracy in that regard.


	160. 2419 BC - Memphis, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to xenophobia.

_2419 BC. Memphis, Egypt_.

“Crawly, was it?” A well-dressed assistant looked him up and down, lips pursed. 

“That’s me,” Crawly said, enunciating the words carefully.

The assistant raised an eyebrow. “Khnumhotep will see you now.”

“Thanks,” he said, standing. Manners made humans feel better, and more likely to listen to him. 

He followed the assistant into a studio, where a human sat on a stool beside a large block of stone, dressed in a dusty smock.

The human—presumably Knumhotep—looked up at them both and smiled. “Ah, thank you,” he said to the assistant. “I’ll take it from here.”

The assistant nodded briskly, then turned and shut the door behind them. 

Knumhotep looked back at Crawly. “I assume you know who I am. And you’re… Crawly, is that correct?”

“Yeah,” said Crawly. 

“Sit, Crawly.”

Crawly sat.

“Why do you want to become a sculptor, Crawly?”

“Seems good work. A friend of my uncle’s did it. I thought it was beautiful. And I need to learn a trade.”

All lies, of course. Once Crawly learned to speak Egyptian passibly, he’d gotten bored, and his linguistic skills weren’t up to snuff yet when it came to temptations, so a job couldn’t hurt. Sculpting seemed less dull than a lot of things, and would give him ears in high places.

“I see,” said Knumhotep dubiously. “You’re a bit old to be learning a trade, aren’t you?”

Crawly shrugged. “I’m younger than I look. Family thing. They said my dad looked forty for forty years.” 

“You can’t be much younger than thirty,” said Knumhotep.

How young could he push it, then? Young enough to give him plenty of time in the persona, but not so young they wouldn’t believe him. “Twenty-seven,” he said finally, with as much confidence as he could muster.

“You’re joking,” said Knumhotep. He looked him up and down. “And just learning a trade now?”

“It’s my eyes,” said Crawly. “Gave me trouble for a bit. Saw a surgeon two years ago now, though, and they’re all in working order.”

“Ah,” said Knumhotep. “I was going to ask about that. A sculptor’s eyes are very important.”

“They function just like yours. Just look a bit funny. That’s the surgery, see. I can explain it if you like.”

He had a whole procedure planned in his head. Totally fictitious, of course, and as unpleasant-sounding as he’d been able to think up. 

“I don’t think that will be necessary.” Knumhotep smiled. “I suppose I should congratulate you.”

“Thank you,” said Crawly.

“You’re prepared for it? Sculpture is an art for people with a keen mind and nimble fingers.”

“I think I have both,” said Crawly as wryly as he could without plunging into disrespect.

Knumhotep didn’t look ruffled by it, which was probably good for Crawly’s prospects but disappointing anyway. He just picked up a tool and began toying with it instead. “There’s just… one more matter I’d like to speak to you about.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t want to seem… insensitive,” he said carefully. “But Crawly isn’t a very… Egyptian name, is it? And you do have a bit of an accent.”

Crawly made a mental note to curse Heaven a little more when he got back to his place. Apparently, just making languages different wasn’t enough and people still had to be able to tell after you’d learned another. 

It was so petty, Crawly almost wished he’d thought it up. Which was blasphemous, but hey. Demon. 

“Er, sorry. Yeah. I’m from Sumer, originally. Moved to a town north of here about twelve years ago, then into the city for my surgery.”

“What part of Sumer?”

And wasn’t that just great? The cities were at war with one another again, which meant Crawly actually had to differentiate between them. This was all War’s fault. 

“Ur,” he said. 

“Oh,” said Knumhotep. “I don’t know much about Sumerian geography.”

“Not many do, ’round here.” Crawly tried for a smile. “I speak Egyptian just fine, and I don’t have any plans to go back. Really.”

“Thinking of building a life here?” 

“What?”

“Spouse, kids?” Knumhotep smiled. “It’s all right, I don’t mind one bit. Now, if you’d been from Gomorrah, I’m not sure. But Sumer’s just fine by me.”

“Gomorrah? What’s wrong with Gomorrah?” He’d passed through on his way to Egypt, and it’d seemed just fine to him. Lots of quaint little shops and things. 

Seemed the sort of place Aziraphale would like, really. 

“Nothing,” said Knumhotep. “But my sister-in-law is from Gomorrah, and I’d hate to discover that your family was feuding with hers or the like.”

“Oh.”

Knumhotep laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll take you on. It won’t be easy work, mind, but I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”

Crawly frowned. “Er… thanks.”

“Of course,” said Knumhotep. “We’ll start tomorrow morning, after breakfast.”


	161. 2411 BC - Memphis, Egypt

_2411 BC. Memphis, Egypt_.

“Nebtyemneferes is here, Crawly.”

He glanced up from where he’d been sharpening his chisels to look at his human assistant, Hedjetnebu. “What, already?”

“No, in ten minutes. Yes, _already_.” Hedjetnebu rolled her eyes and flounced away. 

He’d done a good job tempting her. No one else would hire her now, though, and it wouldn’t do any good for her to be petty and rude with no one to be petty and rude at. It was for the greater bad, really. Keeping her on. 

Nebtyemneferes was good news, though. Or bad news. He was glad to hear that she’d arrived. She hadn’t been especially hard to tempt, but it didn’t hurt to brush up. 

He left his tools behind and went to the front room of his studio, where Nebtyemneferes and Hedjetnebu were arguing over something. 

Instead of interrupting, he crept up behind them as subtly as possible when one is a rather tall Demon. Subtly enough, though, when the—creep-ees? People he crept up on—were in the middle of a heated discussion. 

“Hi,” he said.

Both of them jumped and he grinned.

Nebtyemneferes sighed. “Really, Crawly, must you get up to your shenanigans? I’m not here to play games.”

“What shenanigans?”

She scowled. 

He smiled wider. “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.” He jerked his head to the back room. “Come on. It’s nearly done. Just needs painting.”

“Good.”

He led her into his studio, where he’d draped a sheet over her statue. It was of her, in the modern style, and slightly more flattering than most people would go. That was half the point, though, in Nebtyemneferes’s case. 

She circled it, eyes flicking across it for any imperfections, of which there were relatively few. Crawly’s apprenticeship to Knumhotep had made him a decent sculptor in his own right, and if he supplemented it with a few Demonic tricks, it wasn’t like anyone could stop him. He left a few flaws, just for realism, but it was top-notch work, really. 

Which made it all the more hilarious when Nebtyemneferes stepped back and looked at him with a frown. “It doesn’t do me justice.”

Crawly, being a professional, kept a straight face. “I don’t think it can, I’m afraid.”

She shrugged. “No. But it’s not good enough yet.”

“What does it need, then?” 

“Something,” she said. “I’m sure you can fix it for me, can’t you, Crawly?”

“Of course,” he said smoothly. He frowned, pretending to think, then widened his eyes and held up a finger. “I’ve got it,” he said.

“Oh?”

He whispered his idea, watching her eyes widen. If he was right, she was far enough gone to agree. If not, he was out a client and possibly a job. 

She blinked at him, the kohl around her eyes making the motion unusually obvious. “But—but that’s blasphemous!”

“Don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,” he said. “But… ’s not like anyone’s going to see it. And I really think it might be that last little push it needs.”

“I think…” she glanced around quickly. “I think you should do it.”

Crawly tried not to let his satisfaction show. “I’ll have it ready the day after tomorrow.”

“That soon?”

“What can I say? I’m eager to see your likeness so faithfully represented.”

She smiled. “You flatter.”

“No,” he said plainly. He’d discovered a few years earlier that claiming to be married allowed him to complement clients’ appearances within certain limits, and made use of it often. 

“I’ll be back to see it again the day after tomorrow, then,” Nebtyemneferes said, then left.

Crawly could hear her snapping at Hedjetnebu as she left, and getting snapped back at, and let himself smile. Then he turned and pulled out a fresh block of limestone with a snap of his fingers. 

He had a bird’s head to sculpt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not totally sure that ordering a sculpture in one’s own likeness with an animal head was blasphemous in the Old Kingdom, but it seemed a good bet. Apologies to any actual Egyptologists.


	162. 2396 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

_2396 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_.

Aziraphale looked around the corner into the kitchen of his new employer’s house. A harried-looking human stood at a table in the middle of the room, preparing an onion.

The human glanced up. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, no. I’m just scouting the premises, as it were.” He smiled a bit. “I’m the new scribe.”

“Right.” The human poured the onion into a pot and wiped their hand on a rag, then turned to Aziraphale. “I’m the cook, Su-Belim.” He held out a hand.

Aziraphale accepted the handshake. “Asir-fell,” he said. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all.” Su-Belim sat on a stool and gestured for Aziraphale to sit as well. “I just finished preparing supper.”

“It smells delicious,” said Aziraphale truthfully. He could smell something wonderful, even if he couldn’t eat whatever it was.

“Thank you,” said Su-Belim, looking pleased. “You’re a scribe, you said?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale.

“Do you enjoy it?” 

Bother. He didn’t think about things like that particularly often. “I suppose so. I quite like writing. It’s a fascinating invention.”

Su-Belim frowned. “That’s an odd way to look at it.”

“Oh, yes.” Writing was just one of those things these days, wasn’t it? He attempted another smile. “I get a bit philosophical at times, don’t mind me.”

“I said odd, not bad,” said Su-Belim.

There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I imagine your work is rather more exciting.”

“Cooking?” Su-Belim shrugged. “Maybe. I can’t read, so I couldn’t say.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “I was just thinking it might be. What with all the rushing about and flames and such.”

Su-Belim laughed. “If you look at it like that, I suppose you might be right. Though I would worry about the state of your own kitchen.”

“I don’t use it terribly well, I’m afraid,” said Aziraphale. It wasn’t a lie at all—just a statement that could be interpreted multiple ways. 

“You’d be surprised how many don’t,” said Su-Belim. “Though most have less modesty.”

“Have you worked here long?” asked Aziraphale. 

Su-Belim shrugged. “Seven years. So, a while, but not as long as Elani, the gardener.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “How long has she been here?”

“Twelve. As long as Assur-taklaka and his family have lived here.”

Twelve years. That was a fairly recent, for an established, wealthy family. “Did they move from somewhere?”

“I think so. Their last city might’ve been conquered by the neighboring one.”

“Oh, how dreadful!” War had been active in the region of late, and Aziraphale was rather displeased. He’d half a mind to find her and give her a proper what-for, until he remembered that the horsepeople were part of the Great Plan and also that he didn’t have his flaming sword anymore. 

“Same thing happened to my sister and her husband,” said Su-Belim. “They moved to Elam and had to come back two years later when Lugal-Anne-Mundu conquered the city.”

“Lugal-Anne-Mundu?”

Su-Belim gave him a suspicious look. “King of Adab?”

This was what came of not paying attention to human politics. “Ah, yes, of course. Silly me. How could I forget?” He didn’t even know where Adab was. 

Well, with any luck, becoming a scribe again would help with these things. 


	163. 2393 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

_2393 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_.

Aziraphale pored over a selection of squashes, selecting the one that best matched Su-Belim’s specifications and trading the vendor a string of beads he’d been given to pay with. Then, he bundled up the squashes in a bag and walked back toward Assur-taklaku’s house. 

Assur-taklaku was apparently holding a large dinner at his house in the evening. Aziraphale spent much of the previous week writing invitations and letters to various suppliers of goods and things. 

Guests already seemed to be gathering in the courtyard, dressed in linen clothing and ornate jewelry, hair and beards oiled, curled, and shaped into the latest styles. Aziraphale slipped in the gate and around the side as subtly as he could to enter the house. Once inside, he hurried to the kitchen. 

In the kitchen, Su-Belim was surrounded by steam, banging crockery around. When Aziraphale entered, he looked up, expression fierce. “Asir-fell! Thank Nanna. You have the squashes?”

“Yes,” he said, and pulled them out of the bag to set them on the table.

“Good. I told Assur-taklaku, over and over again—” he picked up the squashes and began washing them in a basin— “that I’d need help tonight—” he set them on the table, one of them bouncing and nearly rolling off the edge— “but did he listen? No, he didn’t. Well, if his dinner is half an hour late, he only has—”

“Might I be of help?” Aziraphale asked.

Su-Belim paused, one hand holding a squash midair, then gave one decisive nod. “Yes, I think you can.”

“Oh, good!” It might be difficult without obvious miracles, but he was fairly certain Su-Belim harboured no illusions about his cooking skills. 

“Chop these,” said Su-Belim, indicating the squashes. “I need to check the soup.”

Aziraphale took the squashes and began cutting them. He’d seen humans do it any number of times, and so didn’t expect any issues. The knife cooperated accordingly. 

In the background, he could hear Su-Belim by the soup over the fire, stirring and fussing over other dishes. The whole kitchen smelled delightful, with spices and seasonings from some of the best merchants in Ur. Aziraphale should know, after all—he’d ordered half of them. 

He finished chopping a squash and pulled out the next one.

Su-Belim yelped. 

Aziraphale turned. “Are you all right, dear fellow?”

Su-Belim stood by the pot, red in the face, a spoon in one hand. He slowly put the spoon in the pot, and blinked slowly.

“Su-Belim?” Aziraphale asked.

“I burned my tongue,” said Su-Belim. 

Oh dear. He’d likely notice if Aziraphale healed it, wouldn’t he?

Su-Belim picked a cup off the counter and took a sip. “Yeah, that’s it. This dinner’s finished.”

“What?”

“I can’t taste anything,” Su-Belim said. “That’s my job gone.”

Aziraphale frowned. That wasn’t fair. Surely they could think of something. “What about—well, can’t you have someone else taste it for you?”

“It wouldn’t be ideal,” said Su-Belim. “But it might work.” He nodded once. “Thank you, Asir-fell.”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale, then turned back to chopping the squashes.

Su-Belim went back to cooking, and before long, Aziraphale had finished the squashes. He put them in a large dish Su-Belim provided for the purpose. “Anything else I can do?”

“Yes,” said Su-Belim, and held out what appeared to be a cake made of millet, honey, and nuts. “Try this.”

Aziraphale paused. Waited. “I beg your pardon?”

“Try it,” said Su-Belim. 

He’d thought Aziraphale was volunteering, wasn’t he? Hmm. He couldn’t very well revoke his offer. Not with the whole dinner and possibly Su-Belim’s job resting on the quality of the food.

Though, if it turned out Aziraphale had no sense of taste, it was rather a moot point either way. 

He took the cake between two slightly trembling fingers. 

The other Angels had never said anything about eating specifically, that he could recall at this moment. And there wasn’t anything morally wrong with eating this particular cake. Goodness knew the people they were meant for didn’t need any more food than they already had. 

He could do this.

Aziraphale bit into the cake. 

Oh, _goodness_. No wonder humans spent so much time eating. It was absolutely splendid, the sweetness from the honey melting into the slightly bitter nuts, all tempered by the millet. He was vaguely aware of his eyes fluttering closed as he chewed. 

When he swallowed and opened them again, he felt vaguely lightheaded and realized he’d stopped breathing. That hadn’t happened in a few centuries.

“Well?” Su-Belim said. 

“That was—my goodness. Absolutely splendid, my dear.”

Su-Belim’s expression softened visibly. “Not too much honey?”

“Not a smidge,” he said. “It’s perfect.”

“Good,” said Su-Belim, then handed him a root vegetable. “Peel this.”

Aziraphale took it. The flavour of the honey lingered in his mouth.

Apparently, Angels could eat after all. 


	164. 2381 BC - Memphis, Egypt

_2381 BC. Memphis, Egypt_.

Crawly opened the door to his studio to find Hedjetnebu standing on the doorstep. “Oh, hey. I didn’t expect you yet.”

“Your loss,” said Hedjetnebu. “Can I come in? It’s bloody freezing out here.”

“No, it’s not,” said Crawly, who’d been places where it was actually freezing and knew that the slight chill they had going on now was not freezing. He stood aside to let her through, anyway.

She stepped into the reception room and flopped onto a couch. “D’you have any beer?”

“Not here,” he said, and sat on a chair opposite her. “You know that.”

“Thought maybe you’d have changed your mind by now,” she said. “Why did you ask me here, anyway?”

“Felt like it,” he said. “And I finished a new piece.”

She nodded. “Something for ol’ Shepseskare?”

“That’s the Pharaoh, right?”

“Yep. New one. I don’t think he’s going to last very long.”

He shook his head. “Not for him. ’S a private thing.”

“Who’s your client?”

“It’s a private thing,” he said again.

Hedjetnebu blinked. “You mean, it’s for you?”

“Maybe.” He paused. “I might sell it later, too. Not sure yet.”

He was still debating keeping it. On one hand, it was relatively innocuous, really. On the other hand, if anyone worked out what it was, he’d have a lot of questions to answer, including for himself. It wouldn’t be that hard to get rid of, either, with a few minor modifications. 

“Crawly, what—” 

“How’s the wife?”

Interrupting was fine, for a Demon. Proper rude thing to do. 

Of course, Hedjetnebu didn’t know that bit, and squinted at him suspiciously. “She’s fine,” she said. “Why?”

“Just curious,” he said, and, for what was not the first time, wished he had a beverage in hand so he could at least hide some part of his face. His hand was fidgeting on the arm rest, and he glared at it to make it stop. 

Satan, this wasn’t that difficult. This was just Hedjetnebu. He knew her. 

“What’s got into you?” 

He shrugged. “Nothing’s got into me. Why’d you think something’s got into me? I’m fine.”

“Yeah, right,” she said. “Just show me the statue already, for Ptah’s sake.”

He tilted his head and watched her for a second. Bringing her here now seemed like it’d been a terrible idea. But kicking her out would just make her curious, and if he’d learned anything in nearly forty years knowing her, it was that a curious Hedjetnebu could not be dissuaded.

“Right. Okay. Fine.” He stood abruptly and walked toward his studio and opened the door a crack, then leaned back to point a finger at her. “But don’t make me regret this, okay?”

“I can’t make any promises,” she said.

He hissed at her, but pushed the door open all the way anyway. 

She walked in and followed him to see the statue. 

The statue depicted a scribe, sitting cross-legged, with a scroll in his lap. The scribe wore a white kilt. He was barrel-chested and slightly plump with warm brown skin and kind, dark eyes. Crawly had neglected to paint the hair, however, so it was the same white as the limestone had been when Crawly got it. 

He wasn’t quite sure what had gotten into him. The whole thing was ridiculous, really. He was being ridiculous. Why’d he thought this was a good idea? He’d gone and made a whole statue about the _thing_ he didn’t think about. 

At least Hedjetnebu didn’t know about all that. She circled the statue, examining the work and making judgmental noises. When she reached where Crawly stood again, she looked up at him and crossed her arms. “Well, the work’s great. There’s just one problem.”

“What?”

“You forgot to paint the hair.”

Crawly laughed. “I did, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” she said, voice flat.

“I’ll, er. Fix that. Right away.”

“You’re being weird, Crawly.”

“What are you talking about? This is how I always am.” He grinned. “That’s all, then. Thanks for coming.”

She frowned. “What, now?”

“Yes, now. Otherwise I wouldn’t say it now, would I?”

“Who is he, though?”

“What?”

“Who’s the statue of?”

Crawly shook his head. “Shut up. Come on.”

He shooed her out the door, then slammed it shut, turned around, and slid down the back of it, exhaling slowly. 

Well. That was a thing. He’d paint the hair over tonight and try to find a buyer in the morning. He’d heard scribe statues were popular with burials for wealthy types. Worst-case scenario, he could take it to Saqqara and miracle it directly into a grave. 

Proper blasphemous thing to do, wasn’t it? Disturbing a grave?

Satan, what was he doing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene is inspired by a statue called ‘The Seated Scribe,’ dated to sometime between 2620 and 2325 BC. I saw a photo on its [Wikipedia page](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Seated_Scribe) and couldn’t resist.


	165. 2368 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

_2368 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_.

Aziraphale checked his reflection in the polished mirror he’d miracled up for the occasion. He was bound for a banquet in a new persona, and wanted to be in tip-top shape for the occasion. 

His _kaunakes_ was new, made of fine cloth and bleached to a pale, very fine shade of white. He’d found a bit of scented oil in the market, originally for special occasions. It smelled so scrummy, though, that he added it to his regular ablutions. 

Aziraphale didn’t know very much about fashion, but his hair did look a bit odd these days. He waved a hand, and it coiled itself into a style he’d seen people wearing, then examined his reflection.

It was a bit too racy,* really.

(* The style was, in fact, favoured mainly by conservative middle-aged men, but Aziraphale didn’t understand this.) 

He waved his hand again, restoring his hair to its usual free, fluffy state.

No sense standing around watching the dust settle, then. 

He turned and left the house, setting a brisk pace toward the home of a nobleman. The upper echelons of society in Ur were growing increasingly corrupt, and enough was enough. He’d just have to nudge them in the right direction from the inside, as it were.

A small child toddled by alone, and he gave them a quick blessing to help them find their way home. 

He arrived at the nobleman’s home smiling contentedly. A slightly harried-looking servant waved him in, and he gave them a blessing too, just for goodness’ sake. After decades as a scribe, he was rather sympathetic to the demands of servitude. 

A well-dressed man greeted him just inside the courtyard. “I don’t believe I know you.”

“I think you’re correct,” said Aziraphale and held out a hand. “Lord Asir-fell. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Assur-tikalik. May the god Nanna keep you in good health.”

“Likewise,” said Aziraphale as smoothly as he could manage, which was really quite smooth after so long in Ur. “What brings you here?”

“Lord Elani is my cousin,” said Assur-tiktalik. “So I often find myself invited to his gatherings. And yourself?”

“Though my family is from Ur, I spent most of my youth away. I’m rather hoping to familiarize myself with the city.”

Assur-tiktalik looked away from Aziraphale briefly to wave at a server. “An admirable goal.” He turned back to Aziraphale. “Would you like something to drink? There’s local palm wine, Egyptian grape wine… I believe there was some spiced milk somewhere as well.”

“Spiced milk sounds delightful,” said Aziraphale. Though he’d sampled food now and again since his experience with Su-Belim, he still found the idea of drinking alcohol a bit beyond him. 

Assur-tiktalik went to the server and returned with a cup for each of them. “There you are,” he said, handing one to Aziraphale. 

“Thank you so much,” said Aziraphale. He smelled it first—it was certainly expensive, judging by the selection of spices. Then he tasted it. 

How he’d gone so long without tasting food or drink was beyond him, now. The scent was nothing compared to the full experience. 

“Lord Asir-fell?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes snapped open. 

Assur-tiktalik was watching him with a bemused expression. 

“I am terribly sorry about that,” he said quickly. “I’m rubbish at manners, I’m afraid.”

“It’s not a problem,” said Assur-tiktalik. “Have you never had spiced milk before?”

“I have,” said Aziraphale. He might have only had it once, but it still counted, didn’t it? “I’m just… quite fond of cuisine, it would seem.”

Assur-tiktalik laughed. “If you call that ‘fond,’ then sure.”

Aziraphale tried to stop himself from scowling, but it didn’t work very well, and only prompted Assur-tiktalik to laugh harder.

Humans could be terribly rude sometimes. All the better that he was here. 


	166. 2361 BC - Memphis, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to murder.

_2361 BC. Memphis, Egypt._

Crawly sat on a low wall around somebody’s house. She didn’t know whose house it was, but it looked fancy enough that whoever owned it would be irrationally annoyed about her sitting on it, which was a major motive for doing so. It was also an excellent place to watch humans, but that was less important.

She’d had to stop sculpting a few years back when too many people started asking questions about her age. The report on her sculpting had gone over well, though—it racked up covetousness and pride like nobody’s business. And it hadn’t hurt that she’d claimed responsibility for a rash of assassinations among her clients, though they were totally unrelated to her own work. 

What she really needed was a long-term temptation. Something properly satisfying. 

Maybe someone who could get other people mad in turn. Another architect, maybe. Or a politician. Politicians were boring, though. A scribe might do it, if they worked for someone suitably involved.

Across the street, a kid tripped and fell, then started crying. 

They didn’t appear to have an adult around. 

Oh, well.

Another human across the street seemed to take notice, though, and went to help the kid up.

Proper good deed, that.

Maybe she could do something there.

She hopped off the wall just as a jewelry-laden merchant type exited the house it belonged to and started shouting. 

She made a rude gesture at the wealthy one and crossed the street to the kid and the other human. “Everything all right here?” 

“I think so.” The human looked at the kid. “What do you think?”

The kid sniffed.

“You know where you’re going?” Crawly asked.

They nodded.

“Good. Go on, then. Scram.”

The kid began trudging away as the older human rounded on Crawly. 

“You could’ve been nicer,” they said. 

“Probably,” she said. “Bad day.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

Crawly let herself smile, just a little. It was satisfying, picking out an obnoxiously good human out of a crowd. “Yeah, actually. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“How?” 

Shoot, she was treading a thin line here, by past experience. If they took this wrong, she could end up with a besotted human on her hands, which was both counterproductive and annoying as Heaven. “I’ve been looking for a friend,” she said. “Just moved from Saqqara.”

Which was not true, of course.

“I think I can manage that,” said the human amiably. “I’m Raemka.”

“Crawly,” she said.

Raemka began walking and motioned for her to follow, and she fell into step just behind him. 

“What brings you here, then?” She asked.

He held up a sack. “Ink,” he said. “I just got a job and I want to make a good impression.”

Nothing quite like the trust and innocence to be utterly honest, was there? Unless he was lying, but Crawly thought of herself as skilled enough at discerning that sort of thing these days. “Nice,” she said. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m a scribe.”

Of course he was a scribe. Who else bought ink and exuded a general air of pedanticity. Pedanticness? Pedant-something. “That’s cool. I know somebody who’s a scribe.”

“Yeah? Does he live around here?”

“Nah,” she said. “Just moved, remember? And we don’t get along. Kind of enemies, really. So it’s just as well.”


	167. 2345 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

_2345 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia._

Aziraphale strolled down the promenade overlooking the sea. It was rather more rundown than it had been when he first saw it, worn and cracked in places from centuries of people walking over it. Still, the ocean was as beautiful as always, a testament to the Almighty’s skill in creating things for the ages.

A little way down the promenade, he could see Assur-tiktalik, looking out over the water.

Aziraphale waved as he approached, and Assur-tiktalik nodded in greeting. “It’s good to see you, as always,” he said. “Are you well?”

“Quite well,” said Aziraphale. “And yourself?”

“I’ve been better.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. What seems to be the problem?”

Assur-tiktalik shrugged, turning toward the water. “It’s this business with the king.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “I thought he was somewhere else. Uruk, or Umma.”

“He is.” Assur-tiktalik sighed. “I don’t like it. He has no business ruling us.”

King Lugal-zage-si had, in recent years, set out to unite all of Sumer. Aziraphale had mentioned it in his most recent report to Heaven and been instructed not to interfere. Thankfully, after the initial conquering bit, he’d left Ur mainly to its own devices. 

“He’s not doing anything really wrong,” said Aziraphale diplomatically. “Beyond all the fighting.” Though that was arguably less his fault than War’s. “And all of y—lots of kings fight these days.”

Assur-tiktalik gave him a suspicious look. “Don’t tell me you like him.”

“He’s rather rude,” Aziraphale conceded. “But really, it’s not as though it’s changed our lives all that much.”

“It’s the principle.”

“Well, I suppose I can’t very well argue with that.” He paused. “I don’t have much political opinion so long as everyone’s looked after properly.”

Assur-tiktalik chuckled. “You are a strange one, Asir-fell.”

“I’m afraid I seem to have little choice in the matter,” he said, and offered Assur-tiktalik an elbow. “Would you, by any chance, fancy a walk? The tide appears to be going out and the beach is lovely at this time of day.”

“I thought you were new to Ur,” said Assur-tikalik mildly.

“More than twenty years hardly counts as ‘new,’ dear boy,” said Aziraphale with a chuckle. “In fact, I’d like to think I know the city rather well by now.”

“I am only teasing,” said Assur-tiktalik. “All the same, I can’t believe you support Lugal-zage-si.”

“I never said I support him,” said Aziraphale, stepping off the edge of the promenade into the sand. “I simply don’t dislike him any more than I did the last one. They’re all a bit too excited about bloodshed for my taste. I see no sense in preferring one over another.”

“Unless you take issue with their policy.”

“Well, we can’t have them leaving the downtrodden to be trodden on, can we?” Aziraphale tutted. “No, can’t have that. It is their responsibility to keep all the hum—all of us safe and well. The responsibility of anyone in power, really.”

Assur-tiktalik let go of his arm and turned to face him with a frown. “Do you really believe that?”

“Of course I do,” said Aziraphale. “And why shouldn’t I?”

“No one in power actually follows that.”

“I didn’t say I thought they did. I said it was their responsibility.”

He offered his arm again, and Aziraphale took it. “I suppose that everyone in power is irresponsible, then?” 

“Not quite everyone,” said Aziraphale, “but rather a lot of them.” Which was in no small part why he’d taken up politics, but of course Assur-tiktalik didn’t know that.


	168. 2339 BC - Memphis, Egypt

_2339 BC. Memphis, Egypt_.

Crawly loitered outside Raemka’s workplace, tossing pebbles at passerbys. A few of them glared at her, and she stuck her tongue out at them. They tended to leave her alone after that, especially when she didn’t bother to make it look like a human one first.

It wasn’t really a proper temptation, all things considered, but it was funny. And it probably did have at least a little bit of trickle-down evil. Somebody who got hit with a pebble was a bit more likely to snap later on than someone who hadn’t. 

Helped pass the time, too. 

She’d agreed to meet Raemka when he left work. He’d been rather busier since his daughter was born a few years back, but she hadn’t let him go. Not while she was making progress, temptation-wise. 

It was a long game, as it usually was for the aggressively virtuous types. Satisfying, though. 

Footsteps sounded, but Crawly didn’t bother turning. If it was Raemka, he knew what was going on. If it wasn’t, she could turn around and give them a fright. People tended to be rude when they thought she was a woman walking around the city on her own, but they could bloody well mind their own business, or face the consequences. 

“Crawly,” Raemka’s voice said. “Was it today?”

“Yeah,” she said, turning. “Why, disappointed to see me?”

“No,” he said. “Actually, there’s something I’d like to tell you about. Once we’re farther away.”

Crawly raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it,” said Raemka, opening the gate to the property and joining her in the street. “How are you getting on?”

“Not so bad,” she said. She’d decided a long time ago that it wasn’t worth working out the Demonic way of saying that sort of thing when talking to humans. They always looked at her odd or got suspicious—or worse, sympathetic. And it was all in service of the greater evil, anyway. “Where are we going, then?”

Raemka shrugged and started walking down the street, motioning for her to join him. “I should probably get home, but we can take a scenic route.”

“Sounds horribly sentimental,” she said. “What was it you were going to tell me?”

“Ah, yes. You remember the horrible governor my employer’s working with?”

“Yeah. Didn’t he insult you? Call you a—”

“That’s the one,” said Raemka. “Well, if you can believe it, I was assigned to write up the contract.”

Oh, this sounded like it could be very good for her. “And?”

“I fudged it,” said Raemka. “He’s going to be a very miserable man, very soon.”

“Brilliant,” said Crawly. “What if they find out, though?”

“It was a simple mistake,” he said. “Looks close enough, really. Slip of the hand. So close, in fact, that they didn’t notice until after he put his seal on it.”

Crawly cackled. “I knew you had it in you.”

“You should’ve seen his face,” said Raemka. “He was like—” he made a melodramatic expression of surprise— “and then he started shouting. My boss actually had him dragged out. I think he was turning purple.”

“Worth it, then?”

“Every moment,” said Raemka. “And the best bit is, I’m not even in trouble.”

“I’m impressed,” said Crawly. 

Raemka shrugged. “Wouldn’t have done it otherwise. Not worth risking my job.”

“Of course not.”

They stopped in front of his house. “This is me, then. Have a nice evening, Crawly.”

“Eh,” she said. “You too.”


	169. 2328 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence.

_2328 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia._

A horrible crashing noise sounded from the edge of the city, the sounds of shouts mingling with the distant thunder of feet. Aziraphale could smell smoke, too. 

It wouldn’t be long, now. 

He’d hoped Ur, at least, could hold up. He should’ve known after Uruk fell. Assur-tiktalik’s son had. Took the whole family and moved out, months ago now. 

Well, Aziraphale would get out too, as much as it pained him to think of. He wasn’t sure he could live in Ur while it was under the sway of an Akkadian. No offense to Akkadians in general, of course. More in the specific.

He gathered the last of his things in a bundle and stopped for a moment to survey his house. He’d lived there almost two hundred years. Since Babel. It seemed odd to let it go so soon. It wasn’t even beginning to falter, for goodness’ sake. Not enough to bother him, at any rate.

The street outside was nearly deserted. Everyone who’d left had already done so. The rest were indoors, waiting to see what would happen.

He shut the door to his house and began walking for the edge of the city. The smoke was coming from the east, which suggested that was where the Akkadian army was. Which suited him just fine, really.

With Ur gone, it seemed the logical thing to do was to take up residence in Egypt again. There would be some thwarting to do there, if nothing else. And they had papyrus. 

Learning the language would be a bit of a hassle, but he was sure he could do it. Sumerian hadn’t been so difficult, after all. And there were other people who spoke both Sumerian and Egyptian who could help him. 

As he neared the wall, the sounds of shouts in another language got louder and he slowed his pace.

A trio of Akkadian soldiers stood by the wall, prodding it with their spears. 

Aziraphale sighed. “Excuse me, gentlemen!”

They turned, frowning. One made a rude gesture, though a second held out a hand to dissuade him. 

The third waved. “Hello!” He had a thick Akkadian accent, but his words were in Sumerian. 

“I was wondering if I might be off,” said Aziraphale. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

“We cannot let Sumerians go,” the soldier said. “Apologies.”

“I’m not Sumerian,” said Aziraphale, truthfully. 

“What?”

“I am not Sumerian,” said Aziraphale, enunciating clearly. 

The soldier cocked his head. “You look a Sumerian.”

“I am not.”

The soldier conferred with his companions, then turned back to Aziraphale. “We cannot let Sumerians go. Sargon says no.”

“If you’ll pardon the expression,” said Aziraphale, “I don’t give a fig what Sargon says. Let me go.”

“No.”

“Very well,” said Aziraphale, and strode forward.

They attempted to block him with their spears, but he batted them aside with one hand and miracled the gate open. 

One jabbed him in the back. He turned and scowled. “That was very rude,” he said, then jerked the spear from their grasp. “I’ll take that, thank you.”

The soldier blinked at him. 

Aziraphale smiled in a manner he was absolutely sure didn’t reach his eyes, and gave the soldiers a wave before walking out through the gate.

When he’d gone a little distance from the city, he paused to look back at it. 

Smoke rose from the other side of Ur, rendering the twilight sky to the east hazy. He could see the wall on the far side where it had collapsed, and the distant glint of Akkadian weapons. He swallowed. 

His body was protesting something awful. He felt vaguely ill, and his eyes were all prickly in a way they hadn’t been since Eve died. Or the Flood, perhaps.

Ur would still be there, of course. When all was said and done. But it wouldn’t be the same, under one king with the whole rest of Mesopotamia. 

Something wet slipped down Aziraphale’s nose and landed on his arm.

He really shouldn’t be doing this. There was nothing wrong. He was being silly. Ur was just a collection of buildings and people. And it wasn’t as if it was the same people. He’d seen the entire population die and be replenished far too many times over. 

He was an Angel. A little thing like—like political turnover shouldn’t affect him. He was meant to be above petty human concerns like that.

Perhaps he really wasn’t a very good Angel at all. 

Another tear landed on his arm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sargon of Akkad conquered most of Mesopotamia starting around 2334 BC. He took Sumer from Lugal-zage-si, which included both Uruk and Ur. It’s also worth noting that Ur had changed hands multiple times before Sargon, but it worked better for the story to ignore that. Especially since the records before Sargon are spotty at best.


	170. 2323 BC - Gomorrah, Jordan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for alcohol as a coping mechanism, named character death, depiction of grief, and references to both adultery and murder.

_2323 BC. Gomorrah, Jordan_.

Crawly dropped into a seat across from her newest temptation. She didn’t even know his name yet, and wasn’t convinced she would. It was an assignment from Hell. Should be done in a few weeks.

“Surely it can’t be as bad as all that,” she said. “I mean, it’s not like it’s going to _hurt_ anyone. Probably be quite pleasant, really.”

The human scowled into his cocktail. Crawly could smell it from where she was—all nutmeg and dates and something citrus-y.

Just because she didn’t eat didn’t mean she couldn’t identify foods. 

The human was still scowling.

“Dude,” she said. “Lighten up. Have some fun. You don’t have to think about every single little decision comes your way.”

“But this is a bad one,” he said mournfully. 

He wasn’t looking at her, so she rolled her eyes. “Ehh, badness is relative. ’S all a load of nonsense, if you ask me. Keeps people in place is all.” 

“It’s not,” he said. “What if my wife finds out?”

“How could she?” Crawly scoffed. “She’s all the way back in—Lagash, right? She’s in Sumer. Or, Akkad now, I guess? Point is, unless you go back—which you shouldn’t, mind, considering what’s going on over there these days—she won’t know a thing. Doesn’t she think you’re dead, anyway?”

The human groaned and tossed back his alcohol, then signalled for another. 

“I loved her, you know.”

Past tense. That was progress. 

Satan, adultery was boring. 

“I don’t think this Sargon business is going to let up anytime soon,” said Crawly. “What are you going to do in twenty years if—”

The door opened and someone dressed in Egyptian messengers’ dress came in, dusty. “I’m looking for a Crawly?”

Crawly waved a hand. “What’s up?”

The messenger spotted her and pulled a scroll from their bag. “Message for you, ma’am.”

“Who from?”

“Someone called Raemka,” the messenger said. 

“Really?” That was odd. She’d just seen him a bit before she left Memphis. “Give it here.”

The human she’d been tempting looked vaguely confused.

The messenger held out the scroll, and she took it, slipping off a bit of twine to read it. 

‘ _Dear Lady Crawly,_  
‘ _I do not know you very well, but I know you were close to my husband. For that reason, I write to you now, though I will be brief. I’m not sure I could be anything else right now._  
‘ _Today, Raemka was killed. He deliberately miscopied an important document for the Pharaoh, and what’s done is done_.  
‘ _I wish you the best_.   
‘ _Nedjemib, wife of Raemka_.’

The papyrus dropped to the table. Crawly exhaled slowly. Humans died all the time. It’s what they did. 

Just, most of the time, it wasn’t because of something she’d tempted them into. 

The door shut as the messenger left and the soon-to-be-adulterous human leaned forward to look at Crawly, expression one of drunken concern. 

“What’s that?”

“A letter,” said Crawly. 

“I can see that,” said the human. “I mean what’s it say? I can’t read Egyptian.”

“I bloody well hope not,” she said. “Go on, then.”

“Go on… what?”

She jerked her head toward the door. “Go on. Get it on with that other human. Lady human. Not your wife.”

“What? No!”

“I sssaid, go.”

He scurried out the door. 

Crawly groaned and slumped forward onto the table. Bloody humans. Listening to Demons. Getting themselves killed. 

“Pardon,” said a voice in heavily accented in Sumerian. “I leave drink?”

She glared at the waiter. 

He set the cocktail down and ran off.

Crawly stared at the cocktail for a moment. It was supposedly good. And really, even if it hurt her, she could hardly be worse off than she was, considering she probably just screwed up the specifically Hell-assigned temptation. If it worked, she could get drunk. Getting drunk sounded like a brilliant idea right about now. 

She picked it up and took a sip. 

It tasted fine. A little… burn-y. Not like smoke, though. More the sensation of burning. 

She swallowed. 

So that’s what ‘sweet’ tasted like. Her mouth liked it. 

Crawly could deal with everything else later. Tomorrow sometime. Maybe the day after. Hell and all that.

Right now, though, she was ready to work out exactly how far her ability to drink went. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I set up a whole scene around a throwaway line from the book and no one can stop me.


	171. 2314 BC - Memphis, Egypt

_2314 BC. Memphis, Egypt_.

Aziraphale sat against a tree, staring out into the desert. He could hear the Nile behind him, and farmers shouting in the distance. The sun was bright, shining on the sand and illuminating the limestone buildings of Memphis in the distance. 

He had a bag of almonds with him. He ate them one at a time, savouring each individually.

Strictly speaking, there was no reason for Aziraphale to go to Memphis. No instruction. No assignment. No divine proclamation. 

It might be familiar. That would be nice. Though familiarity was likely relative when one had spent two hundred years away. He could see a few of the same landmarks, even from where he sat.

He’d just spent fourteen years in a village in lower Egypt, muddling through and learning to speak Egyptian. The villagers thought him awfully strange. A Sumerian with white hair and unusual knowledge of their customs. 

Since Babel, it would seem, regional differences had been exacerbated. Egyptians lived in Egypt and spoke Egyptian. People from Sumer stayed in Sumer, and spoke Sumerian. 

Though that would likely be changing soon. They might end up speaking Akkadian. 

Aziraphale was on his way to Memphis, now. Ostensibly for the familiarity, and indeed, he hoped that was all it was. But he could sense it now. The scent of evil on the wind. 

There was a Demon in the city. Almost certainly Crawly. 

And it was a choice, wasn’t it? A whopper of a choice. Which was why he was sitting under a tree, eating almonds, and not making a choice.

What he perhaps ought to do was go into the city, find Crawly, smite them, and take Memphis back for good. Only, he wasn’t so sure these days. After all, Aziraphale had been the one to recommend smiting to Heaven in the first place. Suppose he’d got it wrong? Smiting was terribly unpleasant, after all. For everyone involved. 

He could also just leave. Turn around. Set up shop somewhere else. Thinis, perhaps. He’d heard they were on the downturn. Perhaps they could use some guidance. Or, he could leave Egypt altogether. Visit Crete, or Gomorrah, or Phoenicia, or the Indus Valley.

Wherever he went, at least it wouldn’t be Memphis. 

The thing was, neither of those options were what Aziraphale was actually doing.* What he _was_ doing was heading for Memphis, where Crawly would be, and almost certainly not intending to smite him. 

(* Granted, what Aziraphale was doing was technically eating almonds under a tree and prevaricating, but he wasn’t especially conscious of that fact in his decision-making process.)

He’d agreed. That was the trouble. Back in Ur, he’d looked Crawly in their Demonic eyes and agreed not to smite them. So he really couldn’t smite them now, or else he’d have lied. Or broken his promise, which somehow seemed worse.

So really, Aziraphale _couldn’t_ smite them. Both the smiting itself and everything about it would be immoral, and he was an Angel. Angels did not break their promises, or smite beings that trusted them. Angels had infinite forgiveness and compassion for all Her creatures.

Perhaps he’d forgotten that, back outside the Garden. He’d let human concerns get in the way of his mission. His mission was to protect and guide and hold dear all the beings on Earth. 

And yes, protection sometimes included getting a little heavy-handed, but smiting someone unprovoked was just rude. 

He tied off his bag of almonds and tucked it into his large bag. It was settled, then. No smiting. Not if he could help it. He was peaceful. An Angel. Violence was messy, and vaguely abhorrent. 

And he was going to Memphis.


	172. 2298 BC - Memphis, Egypt

_2298 BC. Memphis, Egypt._

Crawly ducked into an alley, panting. She’d just finished a bit of work, and it was a good job, too—Aziraphale had been getting closer all day. 

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see Aziraphale. Not really. But they hadn’t really run into one another in the first few years, and then it seemed odd for her to show up when they both knew they’d been in the city together for so long without talking.

And then it occurred to her that Aziraphale might have changed his mind again about their treaty, like he did before, and it just seemed better for everyone if they kept not meeting. So she’d been leaving the area whenever he got close. 

Today, though, he didn’t seem to be quitting. He was still getting closer.

Crawly shuffled farther into the alley.

Aziraphale ran past the entrance.

She exhaled slowly.

Then a white-haired head appeared around the side of the building. 

“Really, Crawly.”

She grimaced. 

“You’ve been impossible to find,” he said, stepping into the mouth of the alley. “It’s been a complete nightmare. Did you see the state of the square across from the tall spice merchant’s shop?”

She made a noncommittal noise and stepped backward.

Technically, she hadn’t seen the state of the square. She did, however, have an idea of what it might be like, considering she’d caused it. A few bushels of grain and three identical-but-distinct flocks of chickens didn’t collide without a bit of hullabaloo. 

“Crawly. Just because you’re in an alley doesn’t mean I can’t see you.” Aziraphale crossed his arms. “Come out here and tell me what all this is about?”

“I got… bored?”

Which was true, bless it. She’d got done with standard temptations and felt like something a little different. So she’d tried to work out the most chaotic thing she could do in an afternoon, and succeeded, as far as she was concerned.

“You got bored and so decided to avoid me for fourteen years?”

“Ngh.” Blast it all, he’d been asking about _that_. “Avoiding you?” 

“Yes, avoiding me. I know you’ve been here longer than I have.”

“I haven’t been avoiding you,” Crawly lied.

Aziraphale huffed. “Don’t lie to me, Crawly.”

She stuck her tongue out at him.

“You’re being childish.”

“And you’re being… adult-ish.”

“I _am_ an adult.”

She shook her head. “You’re an Angel.”

“If you really don’t wish to speak to me, then I’ll go.”

“Wait,” Crawly said. “I have been avoiding you,” she said.

“Truth from the mouth of babes,” said Aziraphale dryly as he turned to face her again.

“Oi!”

Aziraphale ignored her, clasped his hands behind his back, and looked at her expectantly. “Well?”

“I didn’t realize you’d want to see me,” she said. Which was true. Though it wasn’t clear if Aziraphale did, indeed want to see her. He had followed her across a quarter of Memphis, but that didn’t really mean anything.

“I don’t wish see you,” said Aziraphale. “I simply thought I ought to make sure you weren’t doing anything too evil.”

“Isn’t any amount of evil ‘too evil,’ where you’re concerned?”

“Of course it is.”

“Right,” said Crawly. “You do realize that I’m going to be doing evil as long as I’m here, regardless of whether or not we’ve actually seen one another?”

Aziraphale sniffed and stepped out of the alley. “It’s damp in there. Come out and then we can talk.”

“God forbid an Angel be _damp._ ” Crawly stomped out of the alley anyway.

A human gave her an odd look and she hissed at them. 

“There’s no need to be blasphemous,” said Aziraphale. “Or to frighten the humans.”

“Demon, remember?”

“Of course I do,” said Aziraphale.

By unspoken agreement, they began walking down the street, away from both the alley and the square with the chickens.

“Well?” Crawly asked.

“Well, what?” 

She rolled her eyes. “Well, what’s this about? What’s so urgent that you tracked me down? You’re not going to smite me, are you?”

“I didn’t ‘track you down,’” said Aziraphale, sounding vaguely offended. “I happened upon you.”

“Sure,” said Crawly. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I did answer your question,” said Aziraphale. “Nothing was so urgent that I tracked you down. I did not track you down.”

Crawly sighed and resisted the urge to throw something at him. That would probably be more than a little counter-productive. Not to mention dangerous. “Are you going to smite me, Aziraphale?”

“No,” said Aziraphale shortly. “And I’ll thank you not to mention that again.”

Crawly had to stop for a minute at that. 

What would not mentioning it do? It wouldn’t change anything about what was going on. Even if Aziraphale was wrong not to smite her, not acknowledging that fact didn’t change the fact that it was a fact. And Crawly wasn’t convinced it was wrong not to smite her. 

She jogged to catch up with Aziraphale, who’d kept walking. “What brings you to Memphis, then?”

“Angelic business,” said Aziraphale loftily.

“How informative,” said Crawly.

He cast her an annoyed glance.

“How’s Sumer, then? Heard some bloke from Akkad took over?”

“Sargon,” said Aziraphale, finally stopping at the corner of a crossroads. “That’s when I left Ur.”

“Ur’s part of Akkad now?”

“They’re calling it ‘the Akkadian Empire.’ And yes, Ur is part of it.”

“Oh,” said Crawly. 

That was odd to think about. Of course, Crawly could remember when Ur was just a town, but all the same—objectively speaking, Ur had been around a long time. It was strange to think about it being Akkadian now. 

“No point dwelling on it,” said Aziraphale suddenly, and crossed the road toward the street running in the opposite direction.

He patted Crawly on the shoulder as he passed. “Good day, Crawly,” he said, then kept walking.

Crawly turned to watch him leave, one hand going instinctively to her shoulder. 

Aziraphale didn’t turn back, just vanished behind a pair of shepherds and their flock of goats.

Well. That was a thing. 


	173. 2289 BC - Memphis, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to slavery.

_2289 BC. Memphis, Egypt._

Aziraphale blew out the light in his office, then stepped outside, wrapping his shawl around his shoulders. The streets were quiet this late at night. Nearly everyone else had gone to bed already. 

He lifted his lamp and began walking toward his house. He could miracle himself there, he supposed, but walking was just so much nicer. 

He wound through the deserted streets, his lamp flickering slightly. The stars were out, and the moon was waxing gibbous, so the lamp wasn’t as necessary as it sometimes was.

As he neared to his house on the outskirts of the city, he grew increasingly aware of Crawly’s presence. 

They hadn’t spoken much. It was just as well, really. The less he knew about her activities, the better.

He thwarted her, of course. Most recently—about ten months ago—he kept a trader from selling on the black market. Crawly’d been awfully mad at him after that. 

He turned a corner and stopped, glancing along the street both ways. It was odd. Normally, when her presence was this strong, she was in sight. 

“Up here, Aziraphale.”

There she was, seated on top of one of the taller buildings in the city. A religious building of some sort, perhaps. She waved at him.

Aziraphale checked the street again before looking back up at her. “What are you doing there?” 

“Sitting,” she said, grinning at him as though she knew exactly how annoying that was, and she liked it. “Come on up. There’s a great view.”

“What if someone sees you?” 

“They won’t,” she said. “It’s the middle of the night. And if anyone sees us, I’ll keep them from telling.”

He huffed.

“I will,” she said seriously.

A view did sound lovely. And he couldn’t think of anything nefarious she might do that would be helped by his presence. In fact, if she were up to no good, him being there would likely hinder it. 

He ought to go up there and stop her from whatever Demonic thing she was up to.

He summoned his wings out of the aether and stretched them for a moment, then jumped up and flapped a few times to land on the roof beside Crawly. Then he folded his wings away. Couldn’t keep them out these days, no matter how nice it felt. 

She stared at him, unearthly eyes wide.

“You needn’t look so surprised,” he said. “I am an Angel; I have wings.”

“I’m not surprised,” she said, then looked away and pointed out to the horizon. “What do you think?”

There were only a few more rows of buildings in this direction, rooves receding to a great expanse of sand. In the distance, he could see the three pyramids at Giza, and the Sphinx guarding them. Cold moonlight glinted off the gold caps on the pyramids. 

He looked away, a lump rising in his throat. “Must you, Crawly?”

“Must I what?” 

“Rub it in,” he said.

“What? Aziraphale, what are you talking about?”

He looked at her. 

Crawly looked genuinely confused, expression open and vaguely vulnerable. It made something twist in Aziraphale’s gut.

“The pyramids that you had built. All those poor people, forced to build a monument to men who did nothing to deserve their power. Must you remind me?”

“Oh.” Her voice was very small. “I didn’t actually… I mean. I wasn’t here. When that was happening.”

He frowned. “Do you mean to say that you had nothing to do with them?”

“Not really, no.” She looked embarrassed, if anything. “I mean, I was in Giza, tempting workers. But I didn’t actually get them built. Hell just knew I was in the area and assumed, and I wasn’t going to tell them it wasn’t me.”

He blinked. 

The trouble was, as much as he shouldn’t trust her over Tanaphael, it made sense. He hadn’t sensed Crawly in Memphis when they were being built. And really, slave labour and grand expressions of blasphemy and power didn’t seem quite her style. 

“Aziraphale?” 

Aziraphale shook his head to clear it, then smiled. “I’m sorry. I got a bit carried away, I think.”

“I’ll say,” she said. “Why did you think I did that?”

“Tanaphael told me,” he said. 

“Another Angel?”

“Yes,” he said. “They weren’t pleased that I failed to thwart you.”

Crawly grimaced. “I don’t think anyone could have prevented that.”

“No?”

“Not without giving ourselves away,” she said. “I mean, what were we going to do? ‘Oi, you there. Quit conquering people, and also, boom, no more pyramid.’”

He chuckled in spite of himself. “I suppose that would be rather odd.”

“Not to mention the logistics of it. Getting all the innocent humans off and out of them before we vanished them?” She shook her head. “I reckon it was a lost cause as soon as they built the first thing. Stairs thing.”

“‘Stairs thing?’” Aziraphale asked dubiously.

“I wasn’t here when they were doing that bit,” she said. “So I don’t have to worry about it.”

“Glad to hear you taking responsibility,” he said sardonically.

“I am _not_ ,” she said. “That’s the opposite of—hang on.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re trying to get a rise out of me.”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“You are!” She grinned, then looked back out over the rooftops. “It’s not a bad view, though.”

“If the suffering that went into them doesn’t bother you.”

“Demon. Besides, it’s done now. Not much we could do about it. Not much we _can_ do about it, without messing up the Great Plan.”

“I suppose not,” he said.

The trouble was, she wasn’t wrong. They were aesthetically pleasing. White and gold against the sand. 

“Step pyramid,” said Crawly suddenly. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s what it’s called. We’d’ve had to’ve stopped them when they were building step pyramids.”

“Well. Glad that’s sorted, then,” he said. 

Crawly didn’t say anything. 

A wind ruffled the fronds of the trees, and Aziraphale pulled his shawl closer. One sleepless night couldn’t hurt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I've noted elsewhere, the pyramids weren't actually built by slaves, I just had outdated research when I wrote this.


	174. 2280 BC - Memphis, Egypt

_2280 BC. Memphis, Egypt._

Crawly watched her temptee hurry out of the square and took a sip of her beer, surveying the marketplace. She’d been conducting more temptations over drinks lately, mainly because humans were more likely to talk if they thought it was a casual social situation. 

Plus, she’d found that being a little tipsy helped her get some sorts of temptations done. Boring ones, and others. 

A faint sense of divine energy washed over her and she turned to see Aziraphale in front of a fruit vendor’s stall. Probably blessing someone.

After a few minutes, Aziraphale began walking away from the vendor, holding a small bag of some sort. 

That was weird. 

What could Aziraphale want with a bag of fruit?

Crawly finished her beer and vanished the cup, then jogged across the market to join him. 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale as she drew near. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Just one city. What’s that about?” She pointed to the hand behind him. 

Aziraphale shifted his hand to be all the way out of sight. “What’s what about?”

Well, that was new. “The bag in your hand.”

“What—”

Crawly stepped in front of him and grabbed the bag, holding it up between them. 

Aziraphale stopped walking and made to grab the bag, but stopped and scowled at her instead. “I say, Crawly—”

“This bag,” she said, then handed it back.

He gaped at her for a moment, and she grinned at him, stepping to the side again. 

“Really,” he said. “That was completely unnecessary.”

“So what’s in it?”

Aziraphale began walking again. “If you must know,” he said, “it’s figs.”

“Figs?” She walked with him. “What do you need figs for?”

“To eat, Crawly. Obviously. What else would someone use them for?”

She shrugged. “People do lots of strange things. Like one time—”

“Don’t bother me with the sordid details.”

“Right.”

They stopped outside Aziraphale’s house. 

“I’m going to go inside now,” said Aziraphale. 

“Right. Bye, Aziraphale.”

He gave her a brisk nod and went inside, shutting the door behind him. 

Crawly turned and began walking the other way down the street.

Imagine that—an Angel who _ate_. Then again, she drank… they’d really been up here too long. Or down. On Earth too long. 

Whatever. 


	175. 2271 BC - Memphis, Egypt

_2271 BC. Memphis, Egypt._

Aziraphale pinched a leaf between his fingers, then let go to let it spring back. The vendor, who was selling decorative plants, cleared their throat meaningfully, but Aziraphale ignored them. He could hear Crawly nearby, over the general sounds of the market.

After another moment examining the leaves, he could hear Crawly bid whoever she’d been talking to farewell. Aziraphale looked up at the vendor and thanked him, then turned and went to stand near Crawly, who was in the middle of the market, making note of something on a bit of clay tablet. 

“Psst,” said Aziraphale.

“What?” Crawly asked without looking up.

He really shouldn’t be doing this. Still, it was for the greater good. Give the Demon a talking-to before he went off to do more important things in service of the Great Plan.

“I’m off,” Aziraphale muttered before he thought the better of it. “New orders.”

“Really? Is that why there was another Angel here this morning?” Crawly held up the tablet and examined it in the sun. 

Aziraphale sighed. “I can’t tell you that.”

“’Course not,” said Crawly easily, then began doing something to the tablet again. “Where are you going to be? Anywhere I should avoid?”

“I can’t tell you that,” said Aziraphale.

“No,” said Crawly. “Where are you not going to be, then?”

“I’m certainly not going to be in Ur,” said Aziraphale. “Though I doubt it’ll be for long.” The message implied that he’d be going somewhere else rather quickly.

“Bad to know.” Crawly tucked the tablet into a sack slung over her shoulder. “It might be difficult,” she said slowly, “if you were going back to Ur. Seeing as it’s Akkadian and all, these days.”

A lump rose in Aziraphale’s throat. Dratted human body. “I imagine it would be,” he said. “If I were going there.”

“Mmm.”

If Aziraphale didn’t know better, the sound would’ve been almost sympathetic. 

“Think I’ll be here a while longer,” said Crawly, now examining her fingernails. “My lot likes the ‘big congregations of humans’ thing.”

Aziraphale tutted. “How unpleasant.”

“They like unpleasant,” said Crawly. “And it helps me, too. Helps that the people who notice the—well—” She gestured vaguely in the direction of her face. “Helps when they can’t pass it on.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, and swallowed. This was useful reconnaissance. Knowing his Adversary’s weaknesses, and… all that. Bits and bobs. Etcetera.

He cleared his throat. Then again. It worked, the second time. “I’d best be going, then.”

“I imagine you had,” said Crawly. “Good luck, Aziraphale.”

“Ah,” he said. “Yes. Farewell.”

“Bye,” said Crawly.

Aziraphale nodded once and turned all the way away. “Mind how you go,” he said. 

“What?” He could hear Crawly turning to face him, though he was walking away.

Aziraphale smiled. 


	176. 2263 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

_2263 BC. Ur, Mesopotamia_.

Aziraphale stepped out of his house, blinking and shielding his eyes from the sun. He shut the door and snapped his fingers to bolt it from the inside. He’d begun translating Egyptian to the language spoken in Heaven, now, and didn’t want to lose his notes.

Heaven had assigned him a new set of charges, descendants of Noah and his family. To be quite honest, he wasn’t sure he knew them as well as he ought just yet, but he had plenty of time, according to the Angel who’d reassigned him from Memphis. 

And he was making progress, really. He’d been invited to a wedding! A divinely ordained one, apparently, but they weren’t meant to know that.

He just hoped they weren’t rushing into it. The young lady, Sarai, was rather pretty, if he understood what humans thought was attractive these days. And he’d heard of rather too many young people getting married without really knowing the other person first.

Still, it wasn’t any of his business, was it?

A grocer he’d guided a few months earlier gestured greeting, and Aziraphale responded in kind. 

It wasn’t easy, being back in Ur. Half the people spoke Akkadian now. It was frightful. He’d even had people think he was inciting an uprising! He’d put them to rights, of course. Just because he wasn’t swayed by all the new Akkadian styles didn’t mean he was a _revolutionary_. 

Though he did sympathize with the revolutionaries. It was terrible, the things people got away with these days. Why, he’d heard the new king—Manishtuchu, or something like that—was off conquering again. 

Aziraphale had half a mind to put a stop to it once and for all, if not for his posting here. Apparently, Sarai and her beau were simply too important to the Plan to leave to their own devices.

He arrived at the boy’s house, where his father, a kindly man named Terah, stood outside, greeting guests.

“Ah, Asir-fell,” he said. “Glad you could make it.”

Aziraphale grasped his hand. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Is the boy all right?”

“Nervous, but he’ll pull through.” 

“Oh good,” said Aziraphale. “When is dear Sarai meant to arrive?”

“Not too long now,” said Terah. “Go on in. Nahor will show you where to go.”


	177. 2249 BC - Memphis, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally uploaded 2263 BC and 2249 BC in the wrong order. It's fixed now, but, since I'm messing with stuff anyway, I would like to offer my condolences to the Supernatural fandom on the state of their gay angel.

_2249 BC. Memphis, Egypt._

Crawly checked their reflection in the mirror. That looked decent enough. Except for their left eye. Oh, bugger it all. They snapped their fingers, miracling away the kohl around the eye, then put more on. That looked better.

Trouble with pretending to be part of the nobility was all the little rules that went into it. They’d finally managed to convince the priests the snake on their face was a birthmark, though, and thank Satan for that. When they first took the job, they’d thought for a moment they’d be flung right back out again. 

It wasn’t _their_ fault the Egyptians associated snakes with chaos, now was it? At least this ‘Apep’ wasn’t very well-known just yet. 

Well, that had to be good enough. They’d be missed in court if they didn’t get out there soon. 

Crawly waved off the servant who tried to greet them, heading down the steps. Someone in their position had to have servants these days, for appearances’ sake. Still, Crawly didn’t really need the help. But bored humans got up to more trouble, so they kept them on, but didn’t bother giving them any work. 

The walk to the palace was quick. They were greeted on entry by various people they were working with, who walked with them toward their office. Crawly was probably supposed to be learning names, but it had been two years and they hadn’t had any issues yet.

“What’s the latest?” Crawly asked.

“The thirteenth nome is complaining,” the one Crawly thought of as ‘Smelly* Human’ said. 

(* Not smelly in a bad way. This human just _really_ liked perfume, and with everyone smelling halfway decent—one of the biggest improvements over Hell, if you asked Crawly—it stood out.)

“What for?” Crawly asked.

“More refugees,” another one—Sentimental Human—said. “From Uruk, now. King Naram-Sin’s been at it again.”

Right. That hadn’t got any less weird since Crawly first heard about it. Apparently, the new Akkadian king’s name was Naram-Sin, of all things. Of course, there were probably only so many names to go around, but that didn’t help much. 

“Khural?” Sentimental Human asked.

“Mmm? Right. What’s that got to do with us? I mean, sure, terrible, but the thirteenth nome can sort it on their own.”

Sentimental Human shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

“Why the Heaven not? You can’t be suggesting we bother the Pharaoh?”

“Of course not,” said Smelly Human. “It’s just—they’ve brought them here.”

Crawly paused, then slowly turned to face the humans. “They brought who here, exactly?”

“The refugees,” said Smelly Human. “We don’t want to bother the Pharaoh—goodness knows he has enough on his hands. But we don’t know anyone who speaks Sumerian, and we can’t get them to go away.”

“And they’re our job?”

“Yes.”

Crawly groaned. Taking the first open spot in court had been a rubbish idea. Too much bloody helping people, and now they were stuck. “Where are they?”

“This way,” said Sentimental Human. 

Leave it to the thirteenth nome to do that. Crawly’d never liked that nomarch. “So they just dumped—how many refugees on us?”

“Just twenty,” said Smelly Human.

“Oh, ‘just twenty,’ isn’t that wizard.” Crawly rounded a corner, nearly colliding with Sentimental Human. “I don’t suppose nomarch number thirteen is around?”

“No,” said Smelly Human.

They stepped outside to where a small group of humans were standing, looking very confused.

They seemed to be all ages, with multiple elders and two infants.

“Right,” said Crawly, surveying the crowd. “No one else speaks Sumerian, then?” 

“No,” said Sentimental Human. 

“Fine. Fine. All right. Fuck it, okay.” They cleared their throat, then switched to Sumerian. “Hi,” they said.

One of the humans burst into tears.

“Oh, shut up, will you?” They sighed. “Listen, the nomarch you landed with is a wanker. I’ll make sure he’s sorry. In the meantime, these two—” he jerked his head at Smelly and Sentimental— “are going to try to work out what’s going on. Right?”

The humans looked confused, but Crawly assumed that was the natural state when one’s being shuffled around by an increasingly incompetent bureaucracy. They turned to Sentimental and Smelly, switching back to Egyptian. “I told them you two’d sort stuff. Now—why’re you looking like that?”

Sentimental was blinking at them in disbelief. “You—you speak Sumerian?”

“No, I just spouted nonsense at them.” They rolled their eyes. “I’m going to go find the thirteenth nomarch.”

Proper evil, making people in power mad. And they intended to make the thirteenth nomarch as mad as they could without losing their job. 


	178. 2238 BC - Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for emotional abuse (Heaven).

_2238 BC. Heaven_.

Aziraphale glanced around Heaven. Over the limestone balcony, he could see the pyramids, glinting in the sun. He swallowed. 

“Principality Aziraphale,” boomed Gabriel’s voice.

“Oh!” Aziraphale turned to face him.

Gabriel stood across the room, glowing vaguely. He spread his hands in what was likely intended to be a welcoming gesture. “Welcome!” His voice was slightly too loud for a human body, but by a margin narrow enough that someone not paying attention might not have noticed. “How is Abraham?”

“Who?” Aziraphale paused. “You mean Abram?”

“Yes, of course.” Gabriel disappeared and reappeared directly in front of Aziraphale. “How is he?”

“Well, I suppose.” He cleared his throat. “They’ve moved north. Or, some of them have. Abram, Sarai, and Lot… and they brought Terah.” 

“Terah…”

“Abram’s father,” said Aziraphale. “He’s one of Noah’s descendants.”

“I see,” said Gabriel. 

Aziraphale worried the edge of his nail where his hands were clasped behind his back. “I did try to convince him not to come, but he wouldn’t have it.”

“Why wouldn’t he come?”

“He’s not… that is to say…” Terah made statues for the temples back in Ur. Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure how Abram came to believe in God with that sort of family, but the boy had already worked it out when he arrived, so he’d decided not to worry about it.

“Aziraphale.”

His eyes snapped up to Gabriel’s, of which there were only a few extra. “Yes, sorry. Erm. What was I saying?”

“Why wouldn’t Abram’s father go north, Aziraphale?” Gabriel finished the sentence with a smile.

“He’s not quite as… well, Terah’s not exactly devout.”

Gabriel frowned. “And he’s staying with Abram and Sarai?”

“Er. Not as such.”

“Aziraphale.” Gabriel smiled wider. “This is your most important assignment since the Garden. As much as it pains me to say it... you do realize what will happen if you screw this up?”

Aziraphale swallowed. Oh, dear. “Yes, Gabriel.”

“Good.” Gabriel clapped his hands together. “What was it you were going to tell me?”

“Abram and Sarai are living with Terah. Rather than the reverse.”

“I see. Well, they’re supposed to move again in a few years. Make sure Terah doesn’t go.”

Aziraphale nodded.

“Aziraphale?”

“Yes! Er, jolly good.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Gabriel sighed. “Now. I assume you’ve been keeping up your regular assignments?”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale quickly. “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Might I… use my notes?”

“‘Notes?’”

“Mnemonic aids in writing,” said Aziraphale. 

Gabriel frowned. “I fail to understand why you would need that. But if you think it’s best…”

“No, no, I’ll be all right.” Aziraphale smiled. “I’ll, er. Get started then. Reporting!”


	179. 2231 BC - Memphis, Egypt

_2231 BC. Memphis, Egypt._

Crawly lurked outside a large gathering room, shifting their weight from foot to foot. They were supposed to go inside, but there was someone in there they were nearly certain they didn’t want to run into. Not a Demon, thankfully. Or an Angel. 

Crawly wasn’t entirely sure which would be worse, really— a Demon who didn’t speak Egyptian coming in and mucking things up or an Angel who didn’t speak Egyptian trying to kill them. 

Not that it mattered— whoever this was, they didn’t seem like a Demon or an Angel. Crawly was trying to convince themself that that made it better, but it wasn’t working. As evidenced by the fact that they were still in the hall and not in the room with whoever it was.

A pair of humans walked by, arm in arm. One greeted them, smiling, as they passed. The other just looked confused.

Well, standing outside wouldn’t do much. And if Crawly didn’t show, their Earthly boss would probably have a fit. He still wasn’t over the time Crawly hired the pig farmers. 

“Come on,” Crawly muttered to themself. “Big, scary Demon. Whoever it is can’t be worse than the Angel in a strop.”

They walked into the gathering room. 

And it was fine. Really. Sure, there was an odd presence in one corner, but… what could they do?

They accepted a cup of wine from a server and took a sip, then wrinkled their nose, barely avoiding spitting it out all over the floor. Ugh.

“Er… pardon me,” said the server, who hadn’t quite walked away yet. “Would you like me to take that?”

Crawly held out the cup. “Yeah, thanks. It’s gone all… weird.”

“Turned into vinegar, sir,” the server said, taking the cup. “It’s been happening all night. Not sure what it’s about— the wine was fine when the butler brought it up.”

“That’s weird,” said Crawly.

The server gave them a quick smile, then moved away into the crowd.

“Crawly,” an unfamiliar voice said from behind them. 

Crawly spun around. “Yeah?”

The speaker seemed to be a tall, thin person in fashionable clothing. “You’re not human,” they said simply.

Crawly swallowed. “Er. No.”

“Enjoying the food?” They asked.

“Not really,” said Crawly. “I don’t eat. And the wine’s gone off.”

“Good,” said the being with a smile.

“Who’re you?” Crawly asked.

“Famine, to you,” said Famine.

Crawly nodded slowly. “How long have you been in town?”

“Few months.”

“Right—right.” They paused. “Hang on. So the business with the floods last season…”

Famine smiled toothily.

The floods had been subpar, and everyone Crawly’d spoken to was worried the farms wouldn’t be able to support the city the way they usually did.

Not that Crawly minded, obviously. Hungry people could be absolute gits, which was exactly what they wanted. Still, it would mean more work for them in their human job. And even more work, not letting their superiors figure out that they weren’t trying to make it worse. 

“I’ll see you around,” said Famine, still smiling, as he turned to leave. “Enjoy the wine.”


	180. 2216 BC - Memphis, Egypt

_2216 BC. Memphis, Egypt_.

“—Sasenet’s too volatile, and the Pharaoh likes him, so we can’t afford to make him angry,” said Crawly, handing a scroll to one of their hangers-on, who scurried away as they turned to the nomarch’s advisor they were arguing with. “Anyway, what’s this about a new concubine and why’m I supposed to care?”

“She’s Sumerian,” the advisor said. 

“Yeah, and?”

“You’re Sumerian? At least they said you were…” 

The poor sap had only just arrived in court a few months earlier, and hadn’t really acclimated to it yet. Which was fair, really. Crawly wasn’t sure they’d expect anyone to get used to court in its current state. 

The vizier’s seat had just moved again, which was the sixth move in the last decade. Crawly was counting, for reporting purposes. This was shaping up to be an excellent report, and they’d barely had to lift a finger.

“Khural?”

“No, I’m not Sumerian,” said Crawly. “Just speak the language.”

“Oh,” said the advisor. “Sorry.”

Crawly shook their head and turned to stride toward the scribes’ area. “Not your fault no one knows how to keep their mouth shut around here.” If it was anyone’s fault, it was theirs, really. They’d spent a few years in the ’20’s tempting everyone to gossip and it hadn’t worn out yet. “Anyway, is there any actual reason for me to care?”

“Not really,” said the advisor. 

“Excellent,” said Crawly. “Point is, don’t tell Sasenet if you can—” 

There was an odd sort of feeling in the air. Familiar, though. 

“Khural?”

They stopped, and pivoted toward the advisor, who cowered slightly. Crawly let themself smile, just a little. “Sumerians, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Just the concubine or are there more of them?”

“Her, two old men, one of their nephews, and servants. I think.”

Crawly nodded. “Where are they?”

The advisor shrugged.

“Right,” said Crawly, and shoved a pouch of silver at the advisor. “Take those to the scribes. Get it done. I’ve got something else to take care of.”

“What?”

“Ciao,” said Crawly, and walked away. 

The advisor was definitely still staring at them, and they grinned a little wider. 

Crawly swung around a column and hopped over the steps into the garden. It was a nice garden, for sure. If they didn’t already have a better job, they’d consider trying their hand at gardening.

That wasn’t what they were there for, though. 

On the opposite side of the garden, admiring a small fig tree, stood a man-shaped being dressed in egregiously outdated Sumerian fashions, his white curls forming a cloud around his head. 

“Aziraphale,” said Crawly. “What exactly are you doing here again so soon?”

Aziraphale spun around, eyes wide. “Crawly,” he said. 

“Yeah,” said Crawly. “Khural here, though.”

“Asir-fell.”

“May the god Nanna keep you in good health,” said Crawly.

Aziraphale scowled. “That’s just rude.”

“I thought you were Sumerian,” said Crawly blithely. “Anyway, you didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here? It’s only been—what—fifty years? That’s got to be a new record.”

“I wasn’t aware you were counting.”

Something very odd but not entirely unfamiliar happened in the region of Crawly’s diaphragm. “Ngk,” they said. “That’s—I’m not counting. Why on Earth would I be counting?”

“I don’t know,” said Aziraphale. “Is all this business your fault?”

“What?”

“Word up north is, Egypt’s on its way down.” 

Well, that wasn’t good. If other countries knew about it, they really were in trouble. “Not… sort of?”

“How exactly is it ‘not sort of’ your fault?” Aziraphale picked a fig off the tree and bit into it.

“Er. I’ve been here,” said Crawly. “And I’m not _dis_ couraging it. And I’m going to report it. But I’m not masterminding it. It’s just sort of been…. happening.”

Aziraphale swallowed, frowning. “Why exactly should I believe that?” He took another bite of fig.

“There’s not really any… proper reason,” said Crawly. “Reflects well on me if you don’t, really. Or badly…”

Aziraphale’s eyes were closed now. 

“How long have you been eating, then?” Crawly asked.

He opened his eyes. “Oh. Excuse me. Quite a while, I suppose? Over a century, certainly.” He paused. “A hundred and fifty years, perhaps longer.”

“Does Heaven approve?”

Aziraphale looked at the ground. “Well, er. That is to say…”

Crawly’s eyes widened. “You’re joking,” they said. 

“Certainly not,” said Aziraphale, eyes snapping up to glare at them. “And I was instructed to ‘blend in’ better. You know how difficult it is not eating, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Crawly said. “So, just to clarify—you’re eating to blend in better but you actually have no idea whether or not Heaven approves?”

“I am appreciating the bounties of Her Creation,” said Aziraphale primly. “And I’ll thank you not to comment on it.”

Crawly raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, hush.” 

“I didn’t say anything,” said Crawly.

Aziraphale snapped another fig off the tree. “Have you tried these? They’re absolutely scrumptious.”

“No,” said Crawly. “I haven’t actually—”

Aziraphale held it out.

Crawly looked down at the fig, then back up at Aziraphale. Then they reached out slowly and took it. 

“Really, it’s just a fig,” said Aziraphale, a little judgmentally.

“Shut up,” said Crawly, then shoved it in their mouth.

It crunched. They hadn’t expected that. All the little seeds popped against their teeth. They looked so plump and soft from the outside. Deceptive little buggers. 

The fig was also sweet, which they had expected.

They swallowed, though they could still feel bits of seed in their teeth. Drinks didn’t do that. 

“Are you quite finished?” asked Aziraphale. “You needn’t look so surprised.”

“I wasn’t surprised,” Crawly lied. “Anyway, what are you doing in Egypt?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The other old man and nephew are Abram and Lot.


	181. 2209 BC - Sodom, Jordan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for emotional abuse (Heaven) and a panic attack.

_2209 BC. Sodom, Jordan_.

Aziraphale peered around a shadowy cave. “Hello?” He took a few steps farther in. “Is anybody there?”

His voice echoed back to him. 

A message had arrived that morning in the form of Gabriel’s disembodied voice in his tent, informing him that an Angel would be arriving soon. He’d been instructed to teach the Angel how to go about being on Earth, including language. 

Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure what had happened to all the linguistic notes he sent up. Of course, considering he wasn’t sure anyone in Heaven could read in the first place, they might not have been especially helpful. 

“Principality,” a voice said from behind him in the language spoken in Heaven.

“Oh,” Aziraphale turned. “Sorry, I was told you’d be in the cave.”

“No,” said the Angel. “I am the Archangel Sandalphon.”

An Archangel! “What an honour,” said Aziraphale. “I’m Aziraphale. The humans call me Asir-fell.”

“The humans,” said Sandalphon vaguely.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “Erm. I’ve been assigned to follow Lot? He’s Abram’s brother. If you’ve heard of Abram?”

“I know who he is.”

“Jolly good. I mean, of course you do. You’re an Archangel.” He cleared his throat. “Shall we?”

“Shall we what?”

“Oh, quite right. I ought to fill you in first.”

“Why?”

Drat. He was rather mucking this up, wasn’t he. Sandalphon looked rather unimpressed. “That is to say, if you’d like, I could… relate a few things which might be useful during your stay.”

“Like what?”

Aziraphale shrugged, attempting to smile. “Just bits and bobs. Greetings and names and history and what-have-you.”

“Get on with it,” said Sandalphon.

“Sorry, sorry,” said Aziraphale. “Erm. Well. Lot is Abram’s brother, as I said. His wife is named Edith. They have a few daughters. Erm.” 

“What happened to Terah?”

“I beg your pardon?” They’d left Terah… well, several years ago now.

“Abram and Lot’s father. The one who makes idols.”

“He doesn’t do that anymore,” said Aziraphale. “He’s not with us these days, either. I followed orders, and made sure he stayed in Haran. That’s a bit east of here. But we’ve been other places since that are farther off.”

“That’s a shame,” said Sandalphon.

“Why?” He’d been instructed to leave Terah behind, and really, it was unfortunate. The poor fellow had looked rather heartbroken, in fact, but it was the Great Plan, so—

“I was hoping to try out smiting.”

Aziraphale’s insides twisted. “I—I beg your pardon?”

“I was hoping to try out smiting,” Sandalphon repeated. “I was the one who argued with the rest of them about it for you. That Demon sounded horrible.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale swallowed. 

“It was very helpful of you,” said Sandalphon. “They kept going on and on about divine forgiveness. When Gabriel said you’d requested smiting privileges reinstated, I knew you had the right sort of thinking.”

“Yes—I see. I’m… flattered.”

Sandalphon smiled, golden teeth glinting.

Aziraphale took a few steps toward the mouth of the cave. He was strangely trembly, so he sat on a rock. 

“Why are you sitting?”

“I’m just—” Good lord, what could he say? ‘Terribly sorry, but I’m not entirely sure I had the right of it back then and, really, Crawly doesn’t seem nearly as horrid as I thought they were, so if you could please pop on back up to Heaven, that would be absolutely spiffy?’ “I’m overwhelmed,” he said. Which was perfectly true.

Sandalphon, for their part, looked confused. Still, blessedly, they didn’t say anything, and instead sat very awkwardly on a different rock.

Aziraphale’s breath was coming rather quickly. He had to get himself under control. This was absurd. Especially in front of an Archangel. There was absolutely nothing wrong. Nothing at all.

And yet, he wasn’t quite seeing straight anymore. He couldn’t stop hyperventilating, and he was quite sure that if he didn’t dismiss the possibility out of hand, he’d be perspiring. 

It was embarrassing. 

Not to mention totally unwarranted.

He just had to think about something else. Anything else, really. Anything that wasn’t smiting or Sandalphon or Crawly’s face the time he chased them through Eridu. 

He leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to breathe evenly. Or not at all. Either would work at the moment. 

Something clacked in the bag on his back, and he sat forward, pulling it into his lap. He pulled out a tablet with shaking fingers. 

Language! That was something he needed to do. 

“Sandalphon,” he said, and his voice really did sound terrible. 

“What?”

“I think—” he managed to look from the tablet up at Sandalphon, who was staring at him blankly. He took a deep, tremulous breath. “I think you ought to learn how to say ‘hello’ in Sumerian.”

“Sumerian.”

“The language Lot’s family speaks. Or, at least, the language I speak with them. They also speak Akkadian, amongst themselves.” He was trying to learn Akkadian at long last, but it had only been a few years. Not to mention that he was simultaneously trying to learn the local languages. “But I can’t teach you Akkadian.”

“Why not?” 

There. He was breathing almost normally, and his heart was finally slowing down. He’d just avoid thinking about all that. Language, he knew. Words. He could handle words.

“Because I don’t speak Akkadian.” Aziraphale rubbed one thumb over the ridged words in the tablet. “It shouldn’t be too terribly much of an issue. You’ll be able to speak to Lot’s family.”

He stood again, swaying a bit more than was strictly normal, but Sandalphon didn’t have to know that. “Off we go,” he said.

“Go where?”

“To Lot’s family’s dwelling,” said Aziraphale. “Pip-pip. We need to get back by nightfall, and I can teach you Sumerian along the way.”


	182. 2198 BC - Sodom, Jordan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied/referenced rape threats, mass murder, and named character death.

_2198 BC. Sodom, Jordan_.

Aziraphale glanced between the window and Sandalphon. Outside, a large crowd of rather drunken men were shouting at Lot, who’d just told them to leave. His hands twisted his robe. “I really don’t—I mean, are you certain?”

“And have them get away with it?” Sandalphon looked confused. “You heard what they said. You don’t think that behaviour should be punished?”

“I do,” said Aziraphale with a shudder. “Of _course_ I do, but—well—the whole city?”

Sandalphon shrugged. “Does it seem likely this sort of evil is a fluke?”

“I mean—”

“This was coming, Aziraphale,” said Sandalphon. “The city accepts it. Do you see anyone stopping them?”

“To be fair, I doubt they feel safe—”

“No, they’re not. Just Lot.” Sandalphon smiled. “It’s the Divine Plan. Sodom must be destroyed.”

It just seemed a terrible thing, destroying the entire city because of a few bad eggs. They could smite the men, easily. Aziraphale didn’t have much of a problem with that. But the whole city? All those women and children and people who had nothing to do with it!

But She wanted it… Aziraphale swallowed, glancing out the window, where the men jeered and shouted obscene things at the house. “The Divine Plan,” he repeated.

“Yes,” said Sandalphon.

He took a deep breath. She knew what She was doing. She loved all things. She wouldn’t do something like this without an excellent reason. And if it was Her will, it was his duty to follow through.

“Yes. All right.”

“Good,” said Sandalphon with a gold-toothed smile, then prodded Aziraphale into the main room of Lot’s house.

Lot and his oldest daughter, Paltith, were barricading the door with grim expressions. He set a large bag of what appeared to be grain down and turned to face them. “I’m so sorry about this,” he said. “Despicable behaviour.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “You needn’t apologize. I’m just glad we’re not on the streets tonight.”

Sandalphon glowered at him for a moment, then turned to Lot. “We have… an announcement.”

“What?” Paltith looked between them. “Are you getting married? Because if so, congratulations.”

Aziraphale swallowed and shook his head quickly. “No, dear. Absolutely not. Erm.”

Sandalphon scowled at him again, then looked at Lot’s family and brought out their wings. “We’re Angels,” they said flatly.

Oh, drat, that was part of it, wasn’t it? He brought out his wings as well, and mustered up as much enthusiasm as he could. “Angels!” He spread his hands for emphasis.

Lot looked between them. “Oh. Um. That’s… a lot.”

“Yes,” said Sandalphon. “We’re destroying Sodom.”

“What?” Lot’s wife, Edith jumped to her feet. “What? Asir-fell, tell me he’s joking.”

“I’m afraid—I’m afraid I can’t,” said Aziraphale, gazing at the floor. “I’m terribly sorry.”

“Mummy?” Lot’s youngest daughter, whose name Aziraphale hadn’t learned, tugged Edith’s hand. “Mummy, what’s Sanfon saying?”

Sandalphon snapped their fingers, vanishing the roof of the house. “Come, Principality,” they said, then jumped into the air and flew out of sight.

Aziraphale watched them fly away, then let his gaze drift down to the family standing in front of him, their expressions stricken. 

“Asir-fell?” Edith asked. “Please, tell me he doesn’t mean the whole city?”

Surely it wouldn’t be a problem to save some of them. Lot was a good man. He’d just proven it. They didn’t deserve to die. Certainly not the little one.

“Not the whole city, no,” he said decisively, then snapped his fingers. 

They stood outside the city now. Past the humans, Aziraphale could see Sandalphon above Sodom, glowing with holy wrath and showering fire down. 

The little one started crying.

Aziraphale swallowed. “Now, then. Listen up. Er. You all have to run. Very far. And—no, don’t look back,” he said, waving a hand. 

Paltith looked back to him, frowning. “Why not?”

“It’s rather—” he cleared his throat. “Rather terrible. Not something you’d like to remember, I should think.”

She looked down, face crumpling.

Divine Plan. It was all part of the Plan. 

He took a deep breath. “I’m not sure how far the, er… damage will extend. The mountain should be safe enough.”

“What about Zoar?” Lot asked. “They haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Oh. Quite right.” Aziraphale looked down. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

Sandalphon appeared next to him, glowing with holy fire. “Aziraphale, you’re missing it.”

“I was just helping the family,” said Aziraphale. “They did save us, after all. It didn’t seem right to let them perish with the rest of the city.”

Sandalphon shrugged. “If you insist.”

A rumbling, crashing noise rolled through the plain. 

Edith glanced back, and gasped, hands clapping over her mouth. 

The tallest building in Sodom collapsed, the peak tumbling into the surrounding buildings. Then it was engulfed in flames.

Edith looked back at him, tears in her eyes. “Asir-fell,” she said, voice breaking.

“I did say not to look back,” he said, though it sounded weak.

“How _could_ you?” She let go of the smallest one’s hand and began crossing the field toward him. 

Aziraphale didn’t move. She had every right to be angry.

“He told you not to look back,” said Sandalphon, and snapped his fingers.

She froze, then in a flash of holy light, a pillar of white crystal stood in her place.

Lot sobbed. “Edith!”

Aziraphale turned on Sandalphon. “That was completely unwarranted. Turn her back right this instant!”

“It’s the Divine Plan,” said Sandalphon. “And I am an Archangel.”

“But—”

“But what, Principality?” Sandalphon smiled. “You finish up Sodom. I’ll do Gomorrah.” He vanished.

“Gomorrah? You didn’t say anything about—”

Across the plain, orange light lit the sky above Gomorrah.

“But…” Aziraphale shut his eyes. No. He had direct orders from an Archangel. 

He spread his wings and took to the air, flying toward Sodom. He ignored the humans below, and the tears rolling down his face, and the horrible, shameful, sickened feeling in his stomach. 

This was the Divine Plan, and She knew what She was doing. He would _not_ question. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In order to maintain perspective decade-to-decade, I have a hard 1,000-word cap on scenes. However, this particular scene had a lot to work through, so I’ve also written a longer version of it. Should you wish to read it, the long version is [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27347059). It includes the same content as this one, plus a bit more, and gets into some darker themes.


	183. 2194 BC - Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for referenced mass murder, emotional abuse (Heaven), and nudity.

_2194 BC. Heaven._

Aziraphale stared over the balcony of Heaven, unblinking. Though it appeared to look out over Earth, there was no wind here, which gave the air a strange, dead feeling. 

And it wasn’t really Earth. He could see that now. The pyramids were there, yes, but he couldn’t see Memphis in the distance or, indeed, the workers’ town at Giza. Instead, he could see ziggurats in Mesopotamia, not far from the pyramids, and a ring of grey stones in a green field, and more monuments he didn’t recognize.

No, it wasn’t Earth. It was a strange, twisted amalgam of places and things deemed worthy of being seen from Heaven. 

He really shouldn’t be thinking this way.

It was difficult to resist, though, when he could also see the charred remains of Sodom and Gomorrah on the horizon. He’d remember what they looked like, forever.

“Aziraphale,” said Gabriel from behind him. “What are you doing?”

He turned. “Ah. Gabriel. Just… enjoying the view.”

“Don’t get them like this on Earth!” Gabriel laughed. 

Aziraphale shook his head.

“It was good of you to come back up so soon,” Gabriel said.

“Not a problem.” Aziraphale forced a smile. If he hadn’t come up, they probably—no, not thinking like that. 

He’d had difficulty, these last few years. Blasphemous thoughts threatened to creep in no matter what he did. He’d been reading everything he could get ahold of, to stave them off. He spoke Akkadian now.

And the language they spoke in Sodom, not that it mattered anymore.

“Sandalphon said you did a great job,” said Gabriel. “Sounds like you were at the top of your game.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.”

“Though… your enthusiasm leaves something to be desired.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been a bit… out of sorts.”

Gabriel laughed. “Good one.”

Of course, Angels didn’t get out of sorts. He forced a laugh. 

“Sorry,” he said after a pause. “Sandalphon was… very dutiful,” he said. “Enthusiastic.”

“I mean, duh. They’re an Archangel.”

“Sorry.”

Gabriel frowned. “Aziraphale… there’s nothing… _wrong_ , is there?”

He shook his head quickly. “No! There’s nothing wrong. Absolutely nothing. I’m just… tickety-boo. Praise to God.” He forced himself to smile again.

“I’m so glad to hear it!” Gabriel beamed. “No trouble from Demons?”

“Not since we last spoke,” said Aziraphale. “I’ve moved back in with Abraham, as instructed. And he’s not spoken to Lot since… since Lot found out I was an Angel. So there won’t be any problems there.”

“Wonderful. You’ll have another task down there in a few years—something about stopping him sacrificing his son.”

“Stopping—” Not questioning. Aziraphale took a deep breath and ran through an Akkadian poem in his head, then renewed his smile. “Of course, Gabriel. I’d be honoured.”

“Oh! And it was so good of you to show Sandalphon the ropes.”

“Not a problem,” said Aziraphale. “I was wondering what happened to the tablets I sent up?”

Gabriel shrugged. “You’d have to ask the Communications, Records, and Visions people. What were they for?”

“Just… translation things. Since Babel, I thought I’d translate the language we speak to other ones. So that you could start sending Angels down again.”

“That’s excellent initiative,” said Gabriel. “I’ll ask Sandalphon to start teaching some of the Principalities and Cherubs… what was it called? Sumer?”

“Sumerian, yes.”

Gabriel clapped. “Of course. Tip of my tongue.”

“Quite,” said Aziraphale. 

“Well, if that’s all—”

“Actually,” said Aziraphale before he could think the better of it, “there is one more thing.”

He’d been reporting to Gabriel for over eighteen hundred years now, and something had been nagging him since the very beginning. And now, he was going to say it. 

“What is it, Aziraphale?”

“Well… it’s just…” He had to say it. Suppose Gabriel went down and frightened the poor humans? “I just wanted to be sure… you do recall that most humans cover their bodies, now?”

Gabriel blinked. He looked down at himself, then at Aziraphale. “Oh, right.”

Aziraphale nodded.

Gabrial snapped his fingers, dressing himself in a shapeless white robe. “Better?”

“Much,” said Aziraphale. It wasn’t ideal, of course. Clothes were generally much more complicated these days. And there was the minor problem that the robe didn’t appear to be made of fabric, but that was a minor concern. “I’ll be off, then. Lots to do.”

“Excellent. And, Aziraphale?”

He turned. “Yes?”

“Good job with Sodom and Gomorrah. Really. They’ll be talking about that one for aeons.”

Aziraphale ran through the poem again, translating it from Akkadian to Egyptian in his head as he went. Then, he smiled. “I’m so glad to hear it. Always happy to serve the Divine Plan.”


	184. 2184 BC - Memphis, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for illness and minor character death.

_2184 BC. Memphis, Egypt._

Crawly looked up from where they’d been pacing to see a sombre-faced attendant leaving the Pharaoh’s chambers. They watched her cross the room and go out the other door, silently. 

They started pacing again.

Tension permeated the air in the antechamber. No one was allowed to speak, but no one wanted to miss out when the news came. It was the most peaceful Crawly’d seen this particular set of humans in years—possibly as long as decade.

The trouble was, the Pharaoh had been alive far longer than anyone thought he’d be. Longer than Crawly knew humans could live these days, if they were entirely honest. Nearly all his heirs were dead, and the court had been bickering about who would take over, to the point that the nation’s infrastructure and management had fallen into total disarray.

It had been a long time coming, to be fair. When old Pepi’s reign hit sixty years, Crawly’d known something was going to happen. Their last report to Hell, some thirty-odd years ago now, had gone down a treat. They’d spun out their most optimistic predictions as far as Egypt’s collapse went, most of which had turned out true. 

Something clattered in the corner and Crawly turned to see a pair of rival nomarchs caught in the middle of what looked like a rather intense staring contest.

Crawly smirked. If they’d learned anything about humans in their time on Earth, this lot was going to erupt the instant the Pharaoh’s death was made official.

After all, the poor blighter was over a hundred years old now, and laid up in bed with some respiratory illness. It wasn’t so much a question of whether he’d die, but when. 

The door opened and everyone turned to watch the attendant as she crossed the room, eyes trained on the floor.

Everyone deflated again as the door closed.

Crawly turned to resume their pacing, but stopped when they saw one of the viziers—they could never tell them apart—who cocked his head meaningfully toward the door

They raised one eyebrow, but followed.

Outside, the hall was silent. Most of the palace was waiting for the news, whether they wanted to claim power for themselves or had to put the place into mourning. 

“What?” Crawly asked when the door closed behind them.

The vizier cast them a look. “What do you think? I want to know whose side you’re on, Khural.”

Crawly widened their eyes dramatically, aiming for the strongest scandalized shock they could manage without it being unbelievable. “Sides? What are you talking about?”

“You know what I mean.” The vizier frowned. “You didn’t think we were all going to follow ‘young’ Merenre, did you?”

“He will be Pharaoh,” said Crawly. Merenre was Pharaoh Pepi’s only son, nearly seventy years old now. There’s been a time the previous winter that everyone had thought he’d kick the bucket first instead of Pepi and really screw up succession.

The vizier blinked at them. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m always serious,” said Crawly.

The vizier scoffed. “No, really, tell me who you’re for. Everyone knows Merenre won’t be able to handle the throne. Not for more than a year or two.”

“If I told you, I wouldn’t be playing fair, would I?” Crawly leaned in closer to speak in a low voice. “Who’re you backing, then?”

“Come on,” the vizier said, chuckling nervously and glancing around as though someone would hear them and care. “I thought it was obvious.”

Crawly shook their head.

Of course, it was obvious. But the vizier didn’t have to know that. Much more fun to make him think he was just a little player in everything that was about to happen, rather than one of the key people to back. 

“Me,” the vizier whispered, then backed away. “I was the Pharaoh’s favoured vizier, after all. It wouldn’t make sense for it to go to a nomarch.”

“I guess,” said Crawly. “What about th’other one? Wasn’t he vizier longer?”

He rolled his eyes. “Trifles. It’s what the Pharaoh would’ve wanted.”

Crawly nodded, trying to look earnest. “Well, speaking of…” they glanced back to the door. “Shall we?”

“I suppose. You’re with me, then?”

“I’m not sure,” said Crawly. “I’ll have to think about that.”

“Of course, of course.” The vizier held open the door. “Take your time.”

Crawly smiled as falsely as they could and stepped into the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The length of Pepi II’s reign is disputed. I’ve gone with the flashy but fairly questionable option of 94 years, making Pepi himself 100 years old at his death.


	185. 2168 BC - Memphis, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief violence.

_2168 BC. Outside Memphis, Egypt._

Crawly leaned against the side of a shed outside a farmhouse, watching the stars come out as night fell. They’d been enjoying being out of court. 

Not so much the rough clothes and sub-par alcohol—that wasn’t any more fun than it was before. But they did like not having to act like a decent person all the time, and not needing to watch their back for fear some courtier or other would get suspicious.

The humans inside the farmhouse were shouting at one another. Crawly’d let a few of their pigs out earlier that day, and was hanging around in hopes of proper, reportable payoff.

Dagon’d sent them instructions to report to Hell again in twenty years or so, which was earlier than usual. Wasn’t much to be done about it, though, other than get as much tempting done as possible. Unfortunately, they reported bringing down an entire government last time, and that would be tough to follow.

The door to the farmhouse slammed and one of the humans stormed out. They kicked a mud brick fence, winced in pain, and walked in a circle, finishing facing away from Crawly.

“Long day?” Crawly asked.

“You could say that,” the human said, turning to face them. “Who’re you?”

“Name’s Khural,” said Crawly. “I’m looking for work.”

The human scowled. “Load of good that’ll do you. From the city?”

“Yeah,” Crawly said. “What’s all that, then?” They jerked their head toward the house.

“Our pigs escaped,” they said. “Behenu says she doesn’t know anything about it, but… I’ve been a bit wound up lately. Figured I ought to blow off some steam before I really mucked it up.”

Crawly frowned. “Wound up? Why?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” the human said. “And I wouldn’t want to trouble you with it.”

“Try me,” said Crawly. “I might not be good for much, but I can listen.”

The human chuckled. “It’s a personal matter.”

“Have it your way.” 

The farmer turned around to lean on the fence so they were facing Crawly and looked up at the stars. “It’s just… I’m worried things aren’t working out.”

“If all it takes to incite that—” Crawly indicated the house— “is a few pigs missing, I can’t say I’m surprised.”

They grimaced. “You could hear that?”

Crawly tried to look vaguely regretful. “It wasn’t quiet.”

“I suppose not.” 

They pushed off the wall and meandered closer to the farmer under the pretense of examining part of the road. “Have you considered… ending it?”

“What?” The farmer looked scandalized. “Of course not!”

They shrugged. “Sorry, didn’t mean to offend you.” They met the farmer’s eyes and tried for a smile. “I’ve been a bit out of sorts since losing my job.”

There was a beat of silence.

The farmer stared at Crawly, jaw slack.

Something was wrong.

“Your… eyes. What’s wrong with your eyes?”

Ugh. “It’s kohl? Fashionable in the city…”

“Not that,” the farmer said. “Your eyes… they look like a serpent.”

“I was born with them,” Crawly said. “It’s just—”

“No,” the farmer said, scrambling back toward the farmhouse. “You’ve been sent here, on some—some vile mission. Leave me and my wife in peace!”

Crawly swallowed. “Right. Sorry.” They turned to leave. “I’ll just—”

A rock hit them in the arm.

“Hey!” Crawly turned around again. “I was leaving!”

The farmer chucked another rock at them, which they dodged.

Fine, if they were going to be like that. Crawly’d even apologized, and they could get in trouble for doing that. 

They adopted a more Demonic form and hissed at the farmer, whose complexion turned ashen before their eyes rolled back into their head and they fell on the ground.

Crawly sniffed. Served them right. 

They started walking away. Maybe the next farm would go over better. 


	186. 2158 BC - Hebron, Canaan

_2158 BC. Hebron, Canaan_.

“Isaac?” Aziraphale knocked at the door of the boy’s room. “Your father said you wanted to speak to me.”

The door swung open and Isaac stared at him for a minute, wide-eyed, before grasping his arm to tug him inside and shutting the door. “Asir-fell. Thank goodness.”

“What ever is the matter?” Aziraphale pulled himself gently from Isaac’s grasp and brushed himself off. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

Isaac shook his head, running fingers through his hair. It appeared he’d been doing that rather a lot—it was quite rumpled. “I’m just… what if she doesn’t like me? Once we’re married?”

“You’re grown adults,” said Aziraphale. “I’m sure you’d work something out. And it’s beside the point anyway. You know one another.”

“Not really,” Isaac said, turning to look in a polished bronze mirror, trying to tug hairs back into place. “I mean, sure, we’ve _talked_ , but…”

“If you’ll pardon my saying so, this sounds like second thoughts to me.”

Isaac stopped fussing with his hair and turned to glare at him.

Aziraphale smiled serenely and sat on a nearby stool.

If he was being quite honest, he was surprised Isaac was marrying at all. He was nearly forty years old, which was, as Aziraphale understood it, quite old for a man to be marrying for the first time. He’d assumed Isaac wasn’t the marrying type, and had been debating how to break the news to the other Angels, since apparently the Plan relied on Isaac having children. 

Still, he seemed to be in love now, which was what mattered in these things. And Rivkah was a good woman, however odd it might be to send a servant all the way to a different country to find a wife for one’s son. 

“Well?” Isaac turned to face Aziraphale. “What do you think?”

“You know I don’t have any particular opinions on peoples’ appearances,” said Aziraphale. “Your hair looks like hair.”

Isaac groaned. “Can’t you try?”

“I’m sure you’re very handsome,” said Aziraphale. “Rivkah will be simply gobsmacked by your aesthetic attractiveness.”

“Thank you.” Isaac sighed. “I want to do this right.”

“Just be kind and honest, and I’m sure it will all go splendidly.”

Isaac shrugged, then turned back to the mirror, examining his beard. “Asir-fell?” He asked, still facing the other way.

“What is it, dear boy?”

“You’ve never been married, have you?”

“No,” said Aziraphale. “I don’t think it’s quite for me.”

Issac nodded. “Makes sense. I didn’t think I’d ever get married either.”

Aziraphale hummed in response.

“I thought Rivkah would arrive and I’d have to thank her for coming all this way but send her back home.”

“That’s quite understandable.”

Isaac shrugged again and turned to face Aziraphale. “Well. I guess I’m going to do this, now.”

“It would appear so,” Aziraphale agreed. “Well. I’ll be on my way. You remember where to go?”

Isaac nodded. 

“Don’t worry,” Aziraphale said. “The contract is signed, so you’re halfway married already.”

Isaac grimaced. “That doesn’t help.”

“Sorry.” Aziraphale smiled and patted Isaac on the shoulder. “You’ll do just fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omitted tag: #Gratuitous Demiromantic/Demisexual Figures From Scripture.


	187. 2146 BC - Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to both torture and murder.

_2146 BC. Hell._

Crawly dropped through the ceiling and landed unceremoniously in a heap on the floor of Dagon’s office. He picked himself up off the ground, straightening his linen kilt and glaring at Dagon, who was smiling at him from behind her desk. 

“Comfortable trip?”

He sat in the chair across from her. “Thrilling,” he said. “What’s all this about? I sent my report last week.”

He’d been walking through a field when the ground opened up under him and he found himself here.

“You did,” said Dagon, then picked up a tablet off one of two half-metre stacks on her desk. “At least, if you call this a report.”

“It’s a report,” said Crawly. “Says what I’ve been up to. That’s what a report is.”

Dagon tilted her head, making a mockery of consideration, then sat forward. “No,” she said. 

“Right,” he said. “What’s, er. What’s wrong with it?”

“Not enough,” she said. 

Crawly groaned. It wasn’t enough to summon him down here without warning, she had to argue terminology too. “What’s right with it, then?”

She leaned forward and raised a fist with dirty, ragged fingernails. “First,” she said, putting up one finger, “it’s redundant.”

“It’s not—”

“Shut up, Crawly, or you can go take a break with Ligur and come back once you’ve stopped screaming.”

He swallowed.

“It is redundant,” Dagon repeated. “You brought down Egypt. Big deal. That’s last report’s news. You can’t bring Egypt down twice.”

“I laid the groundwork last time,” said Crawly. “It hadn’t actually happened.”

“You didn’t do any more work, and that’s what matters. So that’s gone,” she said, and snapped her fingers.

A quarter of the tablets on the desk exploded, spraying reddish brown dust over the desk and most of Crawly. 

“Second,” said Dagon. “Half of these aren’t even proper temptations. ‘Convinced a man to snap at his wife?’” She scoffed. “Pathetic.”

“He was a good man,” said Crawly. “Until I got to him, anyway.”

“It’s not big enough, Crawly.”

“Right,” he said, and closed his eyes just in time as half the remaining tablets exploded in dust.

“Third,” said Dagon. “What the Heaven does ‘Demonic nature made temptation impossible’ mean?”

“Oh,” said Crawly. “Er.”

They hadn’t realized that would be an issue.

“Demons tempt, Crawly. It’s our purpose. At least when we’re on Earth. If anything, your ‘Demonic nature’ should make _not_ tempting impossible.”

“It’s the humans,” Crawly said. “Some of ’em think my eyes are weird. Get scared. Then they won’t listen to me.”

Dagon spat into the corner, then turned back to him. “Crawly.”

“Yeah,” he said.

“That’s pathetic,” she said.

“Yeah.”

She sighed and sat back, tilting her head to stare at him. 

Crawly tried not to fidget.

“Get out,” she said. “And if I ever hear that you couldn’t tempt one measly human again because they thought your eyes looked a bit funny, I will personally hand you to all the Demons who’d kill to get your position.”

“Right,” he said. 

“Good.” She snapped her fingers.

The rest of his reports exploded, and he managed not to flinch.

Dagon sniffed. “Get out, Crawly.”

He shot to his feet and almost-but-didn’t-quite run to the staircase back to Earth.


	188. 2136 BC - Hebron, Canaan

_2136 BC. Hebron, Canaan._

“Aziraphale,” Rivkah said, carrying one child in each arm. “Thank God I’ve found you.”

He turned from where he’d been examining a text Abraham asked him to look over. “What is it?”

Rivkah leaned toward him, offering one of the children. “I have work to do,” she said. “Would you look after them for a moment?”

“Would—” he glanced between the text and the boys, who blinked their dark eyes at him. Aziraphale sighed and reached for the nearer. “Oh, all right.”

“Thank you,” Rivkah said. 

He took the child and cradled him in one arm, then the second. Goodness, they were rather small. Larger than they had been, of course, but still not very big.

“Azur,” one of them said.

“That’s right,” said Rivkah. “Now, I really do need to go.” She kissed each of them on the head and rushed from the room.

Aziraphale sighed and took one last look at the papyrus, then focused his attention on the two boys.

They seemed well enough behaved. One was sucking his thumb, while the other clutched a wooden statue of some sort. He hadn’t quite learned the difference yet. One was Esau, and one was Jacob, but humans of this age were difficult to tell apart at the best of times. 

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “I suppose we ought to sit, hadn’t we.” He blinked at the room around him. It was full of fragile and arguably dangerous things—ink and styluses and tablets and suchlike. Not an ideal location for a pair of young humans. 

He left the room and went to one of the main rooms, where he blinked at the floor for a moment. He couldn’t put one of them down without risking the other one. Bother.

Finally, he decided that the best method was to sit down and from there to set them down. 

“Now then,” he said, looking between the two humans. “I don’t suppose either of you have learned your names yet?”

The smaller one removed his thumb from his mouth with a popping noise and stared up at Aziraphale. “Mum,” he said.

“No,” he said. “I am not your mother. I am Aziraphale.”

“Azur,” the other one said. 

“Quite right,” said Aziraphale. “Excellent.”

“Mum,” the first one repeated, then began sucking his thumb again with renewed intensity.

Aziraphale sighed. Clearly, they hadn’t yet progressed far in terms of linguistic communication. In some ways, that made it more difficult. In others, it was easier. He didn’t have to work out the proper things to say to a human of their age.

The larger boy, whose cheeks were rather pinker than the other, lifted his toy in the air. “Cob,” he said. 

“No,” said Aziraphale. “That’s a toy. A dolly, perhaps?”

“Cob,” the boy reiterated, then brought the toy down toward the smaller one. 

Aziraphale caught the toy and tugged it from the boy’s fingers before it hit the smaller one. “That’s not how we do things, my dear.”

“Why?” It was the smaller one this time. 

“It’s not very nice,” said Aziraphale. “What does ‘cob’ mean, anyway?” He addressed the larger boy now.

“Cob,” the smaller one said. “Me.”

“Ah. Jacob, isn’t it?”

“Cob,” said the larger one, who must have been named Esau, if the smaller one was in fact Jacob.

“A pleasure to meet you, Jacob. And Esau. Of course, we have met before, but I don’t suppose you’ll remember this well enough for it to matter, will you?”

Jacob blinked at him once, then put his thumb back in his mouth. “’Zur.”

“Aziraphale. Or Asir-fell, if you like.” He sighed. “Well. I’m sure we’ll get on splendidly.”


	189. 2130 BC - Waset, Egypt

_2130 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Crawly grazed the leaf of the shrub he was meant to be tending with one finger, and grimaced. It felt much too limp. He wasn’t having nearly as much success with this as he’d hoped. It had been nearly three months, but the plants were being stubborn and refused to get better.

“Khural.”

He turned to see Weni, the older gardener who was meant to be teaching him. 

“It’s not working,” Crawly said. “It’s gone all… bleh.”

“There’s a word for that, boy.”

Crawly rolled his eyes. 

Weni couldn’t see it, anyway—since his last disaster of a report to Hell, he’d found someone who could weave fabric fine enough to see through and started wearing it over his eyes. He bribed a doctor to give him a signed tablet saying he needed it for medical reasons, too. He counted it as tempting someone to dishonesty. 

“Come on,” Weni said. “You know the word.”

“Wilted.”

“Good lad.” 

As soon as Crawly didn’t need his help anymore, he fully intended to tempt Weni into oblivion. He was so absurdly nice, it would be tremendously satisfying to see him knocked down a peg or two in terms of moral standing. 

“You’ve watered it?”

“’Course I’ve watered it,” Crawly said. “I’m not some kid walked in off the street.”

“You’re close enough.” Weni examined the plant. “Hmm. If you don’t have any ideas, my instinct is to let it be for a few. Have you had anything to eat today?”

“Yeah.” He hadn’t, of course. Seemed a lot of bother, even if he could technically do it. And the food in Waset* wasn’t nearly as good as it had been in Memphis. 

(* Some time later, the Greeks would name Waset ‘Thebes,’ inspiring some complaints from Aziraphale about some humans’ desire to make life more complicated for everyone. Crawly chose not to mention that he’d claimed ‘unnecessary terminology changes’ as one of his own inventions. This omission was probably for the best.)

“Good lad. You’re thin as a blade of grass, you know. Do you want to join me for a bite inside?”

Crawly resisted the urge to roll his eyes again, then realized that covert rudeness was probably at least a little Demonic, so did it anyway. “Sure, fine. I’ll just… put these away.” He waved his pruning tools.

“Form, Khural. Tools, not toys.”

Crawly turned to walk away. “I’m not actually a child.” He was far older than Weni, in fact. Probably older than Weni could trace his family.

“No, but you are my apprentice, and you will respect your elders.”

Crawly hissed, setting his tools in their respective places, and rolled his eyes once more for bad measure. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I know virtually nothing about gardening, much less First Intermediate Period-era Egyptian gardening techniques. Also, the working title for this chapter in my files was "Crowley Learns Gardening and Rolls His Eyes A Lot."


	190. 2117 BC - Waset, Egypt

_2117 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Crawly carefully cut a branch off the plant it was attached to and pulled it away, pocketing his pruning knife. With the branch safely away from its larger plant, he turned it over, examining the leaves. They had a bit of malignant fungus. It was good he’d caught it before it spread to the rest of the plant.

“What’d it do to you?” 

Crawly looked up to see a young human—a youth, really—dressed like a guard, leaning against one of the columns that bordered the garden.

“It’s got fungus.” Crawly crossed the garden to his pile of plant trimmings and dropped it on, then turned to frown at the human. “What’re you doing here? Is the garden worth guarding these days?”

“It’s part of my round,” the human said. “An’ it’s nice out here.”

Crawly scoffed. “It’s not ‘nice,’ I’ll have you know. These plants are cheeky bastards, every last one.”

“Sorry,” the human said. “Don’t know much about plants.”

“I didn’t either, ’til recently.” Crawly walked over to another plant and watered it. 

There was a pause. “Haven’t you been here for thirteen years?”

“Yeah. But I was just the apprentice for four of them.”

“That’s still not ‘recently.’”

“It is when you’re me,” said Crawly, then put the watering pitcher down and knelt to examine the plant. 

“Why do you wear that veil?”

Crawly laughed. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“All the blokes back at the barracks are curious,” the human said. “The gardener with the veil.”

“I have a name,” Crawly said, pulling off ripe seed pods.

“None of us know it,” the human said.

Crawly made a noise of acknowledgment and dropped the pods into a pot.

“I’m Nebi.”

“Good for you.”

He could hear Nebi sigh in annoyance, and smiled to himself. He’d managed to cultivate a proper air of mystery here, and it was paying off spectacularly. The veil helped a lot. So did the black* clothes. 

(* This was especially helpful since humans hadn’t yet developed a way to dye clothes true black, a minor fact Crawly had been stubbornly overlooking for 1,887 years.)

“What’s your name?”

“Not going to tell you.” He straightened up and crawled to the next plant, where he began collecting seed pods. 

If this kid was curious enough, Crawly might be able to get him to do drastic things to work out his name. Or he’d just avoid lessening his air of mystery. 

Win-win. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to some weird event timing, we're heading into a few days (in-story decades) of just Crowley's POV here. Rest assured Crowley and Aziraphale will ultimately have an equal number of scenes, or as close to equal as possible.


	191. 2109 BC - Waset, Egypt

_2109 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Crawly stepped into the garden. He probably wasn’t allowed to be tending it this late at night, but as Demon, he was practically required to break rules once in a while. And it was a silly rule, anyway.

He’d had four new trees brought in from a nearby farm, and they arrived in the afternoon when he’d been busy with other things. The middle of the night seemed as good a time as any to re-plant them. Even if it was a bit cold.

Actually, he didn’t have to tolerate that. He snapped his fingers, summoning up a wool shawl, which he draped around his shoulders. It stayed without any physical fastening because he believed it would.

The trees stood in the corner of the garden, where the incompetent messengers had dumped them. No respect for plants. They didn’t seem any worse for the wear, though. In fact, they seemed to be in excellent condition. Three of them even had fruits.

Had Crawly ordered fig trees? He might’ve just said ‘trees,’ in which case it was his own blessed fault.

Still. Figs were… acceptable. He liked figs. 

Granted, he had some associations with them, but that wasn’t the figs’ fault. It was Aziraphale’s fault. 

Not that he was thinking about Aziraphale. 

He tried pushing one of the trees across the garden to its designated location. It made a horrible scraping noise on the ground, and he stopped. If he woke the humans, he’d have a problem. Although, even if he did wake them, he could probably miracle himself away and they’d be left to puzzle over who was gardening loudly in the middle of the night. 

Oh, right. Miracles. That was a thing he could do.

Crawly snapped his fingers, and the fig tree reappeared next to the spot he was meant to be planting it.

He meandered over to it and paused. He could just begin digging, but he wasn’t exactly in a hurry. Might as well take advantage of the situation.

He tugged a fig off the tree and put it in his mouth before he could think the worse of it.

It tasted the same as the last time he’d had a fig. Sweet, mostly. And a little disappointing. It wasn’t nearly as good as he’d expect it to be, with the way Aziraphale’d—

Crawly shook his head once, violently, and swallowed without chewing, then knelt and began digging. That’s what he got for eating. Bloody Angels and their appreciation for all God’s creations. 

He’d just plant the trees and go back to bed. And maybe sleep for a week. Though the humans might think he’d died, so maybe not. That could be a right mess to sort out. 


	192. 2100 BC - Waset, Egypt

_2100 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Crawly wiped his hands on a rag next to his haphazard pile of tools and turned to his human boss, Beqet. “Sorry about that. The lotus got some ideas.”

“Indeed,” Beqet said, dipping a stylus in his ink palette. “Is the garden well overall?”

Crawly shrugged. “I’d say so, yeah. Not the lotus, obviously. I mean, it’s acceptable, if this weren’t the king’s palace. As gardens go, it’s all excellent. For the circumstances, it’s abysmal.”

“I see,” said Beqet. He looked skeptical as usual, but not nearly as much as he did the first time they did this. “And what should I report to Tjetjy?”

Crawly swallowed. He hadn’t realized this one went all the way to Tjetjy. “Y’mean, what _should_ you report, or what do I want you to report?”

“The distinction is inconsequential.”

“Right,” said Crawly. “It’s growing properly.”

Beqet made a note on his papyrus. “Good,” he said. “Anything else to report?”

That was odd. Normally, Beqet got his answer and left. “Er… no?”

“You’re sure?”

Crawly shrugged. “Think so.”

“Hmm.” Beqet made another note. 

That probably wasn’t ideal. 

“Have I done something I’m not supposed to?” Of course, he couldn’t think of anything he’d done out of the ordinary, but since when did not knowing he’d done something wrong stop him getting in trouble? Since never, that’s when. 

Beqet shook his head.

“You’re sure?”

Couldn’t hurt to push, after all. If he’d done nothing wrong, it might get Beqet in a foul mood for the rest of his rounds. If Crawly had done something wrong, better to know now and deal with it than to stay ignorant.

Beqet put his stylus down with a sigh. “It’s just that it seems…” He wasn’t meeting Crawly’s eyes. Or, not meeting his veil, but the distinction wasn’t really important.

“Seems what?” Crawly asked.

“It just seems odd,” said Beqet. “I’ve been here twenty years. And if I remember correctly, you’ve been here for thirty.”

“That’s right.” Crawly kept his face schooled into neutrality, but began bouncing his foot. He’d overstayed his welcome, probably. This was the beginning of the end. Next up, the whole ‘human fails to be polite about the not-aging thing.’

“You know that you’ve been offered retirement?”

Crawly’s jaw dropped. Retirement? Why the Heaven should he get retirement, of all beings. “Guh. No. What?”

“Two years ago. You should have gotten the scroll.”

“Right,” said Crawly. He’d taken to habitually burning or destroying human communication, since so little of it mattered. Maybe he ought to rethink that. “I think I must have missed it.”

“Oh.” Beqet looked properly perplexed now. “I’ll have them get you a copy.”

“Thanks,” said Crawly before he could stop himself.

Beqet offered an awkward smile, then turned and walked away.

Well, that was a thing. Apparently, working one job for thirty years in a palace had its benefits. 


	193. 2092 BC - Waset, Egypt

_2092 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Crawly stepped outside the pub he’d been in and took a sip from his cup of beer. It wasn’t the best he’d had, but it wasn’t terrible. 

“Hey mister,” a youthful voice called. “D’you have any spare change?”

He turned to see a kid leaning at the entrance to an alley, dressed in dusty clothes. They appeared to be somewhere in the awkward stage between a proper kid and an adult with enough experience to make choices that wouldn’t land them in trouble.

“Or not mister,” the kid said. “Change?”

“Haven’t got any,” said Crawly. Which was true—they conjured up money when they needed it instead of carrying it around. It clinked. Hard to be suave when you were walking around clinking.

“Oh,” the kid said. “Okay.”

“I’ve got this, though,” said Crawly, and summoned a package of dates into existence. He tossed it at them.

The kid caught it and turned it over in their hands, looking mildly bewildered.

“’S not going to bite,” said Crawly. “Unless I wanted it to.”

They dropped it and backed away.

“I’m just kidding.” He probably could make it bite, if he really, really wanted to, but that seemed a lot of work. Besides, he was meant to lie. “It’s dates. You looked like you might need a pick-me-up.”

He’d found that most kids—and indeed, plenty of humans as a group—responded better to temptation with something to eat. Unless it was a temptation that worked better on a hungry human, but that didn’t seem quite fair. Less temptation, more coercion. 

The kid picked the package up again, gingerly. “I don’t want trouble,” they said.

“No one does. At least, hardly anyone. Not for themselves.” Crawly sighed. “I’m not going to give you trouble. Just dates. And I’m not too bad at giving advice, either. Or at least that’s what people say.”

The kid had opened it and was scrutinizing a date. “Who?”

“Loads of people. Bloke named Naram-Sin. Not the famous one. Different one.”

“Famous one?” The kid spoke with their mouth full, apparently having deemed the dates worthy of their attention.

“Don’t worry about it. Just… people.” Crawly took a sip of beer to avoid talking for a moment. 

“Why’re you talking to me?”

“I like talking to people, most of the time. People have lots of interesting things to say.”

The kid laughed. “Not me.”

“Oh?”

“I haven’t got anything. Much less anything to talk about.”

“Sounds to me like you’re talking about not having anything.” 

The kid made an affirmative noise, mouth otherwise occupied with dates.

Crawly leaned against the wall of the pub. “D’you take advice?”

“Depends what it is.”

“Mmm.”

“I’ll listen to it,” the kid said.

Crawly allowed himself a smirk. “Have you thought about other ways of getting money?”

“Of course,” the kid snapped. “No one wants to give me a job.”

He raised a hand in defensive posture. “Not what I meant. Sorry. That came off wrong. I mean, other than working. _Alternative_ ways.”

The kid’s eyes widened. “What, like…” they lowered their voice. “Like stealing?”

“I think of it as ‘forceful wealth redistribution.’”

The kid shook their head quickly. “I couldn’t. I mean, I wouldn’t know how. And it’s wrong, isn’t it?”

“Depends who you target,” said Crawly. “Some of these folks are rich enough they can handle it, and then some. Couldn’t have got that rich without doing something a bit wrong themselves. Seems to me it would serve them right.”

“I guess so… I still wouldn’t know how.” They finished the dates and balled up the wrapping, which they tucked into their belt.

“It’s not that hard.” He pushed off the wall and beckoned. “I’m on my way to the market now. Come with?”

The kid looked conflicted.

Time to pull out the big blades, then. He’d have preferred not to, but it wasn’t as bad as it could be. “We can grab something to eat, on me. No strings attached. Worst case, you get free lunch.”

“I thought you didn’t have any money.”

“Blast.” This one had a good memory. “I lied. I’ll get you lunch, though.”

The kid rolled their eyes. “Fine. Free lunch and three silver pieces, and then you can tell me about your… idea.”

Crawly began walking away, as casual as could be. “One silver piece, and don’t push your luck.”

There was a moment of silence, then the sound of feet scampering to catch up. “I’ll come,” they said. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Crawly. 


	194. 2084 BC - Waset, Egypt

_2084 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Crawly dusted off his hands and got to his feet, stretching. He’d been inspecting some of his smaller plants for the better part of the morning. They were doing all right, for the most part. Still, he had to check them every now and again in case they decided to go rogue.

He could hear someone enter the garden, so he brushed his veil back down over his face and miracled the dirt off his kilt and knees, then turned to see who it was.

A middle-aged, vaguely familiar-looking human in armor was staring at him intently.

“Can I help you?” Crawly used a tone intended to convey he had no intention of helping even if he could. 

The human blinked. “Sorry,” he said. “You remind me of the old gardener.”

Crawly grinned. “My father worked here awhile.”

“Oh. I guess that’s why.”

“Yeah.” One of the best parts of pretending to be his own relative was watching humans convince themselves that he looked different enough from himself for it to be believable. They always managed, in the end, but made some fantastic expressions in the middle stages. “Did you know him?”

“Not really. Kept to himself.”

“Sounds like him.”

The human was silent for a minute. “Why do you wear the veil? He never answered.”

“Family secret,” Crawly said with a wink. Although, winking didn’t do much good under a veil. Bless it. 

The human sighed dramatically, but didn’t say anything. 

Something about them still seemed familiar. Still, he’d be blessed if he asked something friendly like ‘what’s your name.’ 

“He never told me either,” the human said finally. “An’ he wouldn’t say his name at first, either. Some of the other soldiers told me in the end.”

Lot of good that did. Crawly had made a point of not telling people his name last time around, for the look of it. 

“What’s your name, then?”

“Khural II.” There hadn’t been much point coming up with a different one, really. 

The human raised their eyebrows. “Creative.”

“Oi. It’s my name.”

“I’m Nebi,” the human offered. 

Right. The young one. He’d spent the better part of two years loitering in the garden trying to prod Crawly into sharing more about himself. He’d tempted him into nicking his general’s wig, once, which had been hilarious. 

Mystery solved.

Crawly turned to examine a shrub.

“I’ll see you around, then?” Nebi asked.

“I guess.” He didn’t intend to be any more sociable this time than he had been before—which was to say, not at all unless he was tempting. 

Nebi laughed. “You really are a lot like your father.”

“Yup,” said Crawly, then proceeded to ignore him. 


	195. 2069 BC - Hebron, Canaan

_2069 BC. Hebron, Canaan._

Aziraphale finished the tablet he was reading. Isaac brought it the day before, though he’d only just had the chance to sit down with it properly now. It was a story from Sumer someone had thought to write down.

Recording stories was one of the cleverest uses of writing yet, as far as Aziraphale was concerned. Telling them out loud was lovely, of course, but this allowed them to travel. 

Still. He ought to be going. Jacob had agreed to prepare dinner tonight, and Aziraphale didn’t wish to be late. 

He set the tablet down and tucked it in a row with the other tablets he’d acquired over the years. It was beginning to be quite a collection, since most people knew he was fond of them. 

The centre of camp was still mostly empty. Two women sat on the side, sewing and talking between themselves. Jacob sat by the fire, stirring a pot of stew. 

“How is it?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Oh, Asir-fell.” Jacob straightened up. “I think it’s turning out well.”

“How marvelous!”

Jacob shrugged. “Would you try it for me? I’m not sure it’s any good.”

“I’m sure it’s delightful. Though I suppose I could try some if you really think it necessary.”

“Okay.” He used the spoon he’d been stirring with to fish scoop up a bit of the stew and held it out to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale sighed and took the spoon, blowing on it, then tasted the stew. 

Jacob was really very modest. He’d begun experimenting more with spices in recent years, and the lentils and vegetables were both cooked close to perfection.

Aziraphale swallowed, opened his eyes, and passed the spoon back to Jacob. “Simply scrumptious, dear boy.”

“Thank you.” Jacob began stirring again. “I’m going to let it simmer until the hunters get back, I think.”

“They shouldn’t be long, I daresay.” He paused. “Would you mind terribly if I waited?”

Jacob shook his head.

Aziraphale sat down nearby with a pleased sigh. It had been wonderfully peaceful the last few decades. Losing Sarah and Abraham had been difficult, of course, but such was the passing of time. And the humans had been tactful enough to overlook his agelessness.

Before terribly long, the hunters began returning. Most of them went to their tents to freshen up, but Esau went straight to his brother.

“Jacob!” Esau cried. “You won’t believe what we saw today. Is that stew?”

“You can have it when everyone else gets here.”

“Let me have some stew. I’m starving.”

Jacob sighed. “Fine, if you give me your birthright.”

Aziraphale looked up. “Jacob, my boy—”

“I’m literally going to die if you don’t give me stew right now,” said Esau. “Not so worried about the birthright.”

Oh, bother. At his last report to Gabriel, he’d been instructed not to interfere with the boys’ inheritance. He’d thought it rather an odd direction, since it had seemed quite plain at the time which of them would get it. 

“Swear it to me first,” said Jacob.

“I swear,” said Esau. “Please, Jacob, I’m hungry.”

Jacob picked up a bowl, filled it, and handed it to Esau, who moved away to sit next to Aziraphale.

He was rather pungent. 

Aziraphale scooted slightly away. “How was the hunt?”

“Great,” said Esau. “Hang on, I’m eating.”

“Quite,” said Aziraphale. The poor chap had just given away rather a lot for the stew, after all. He ought to enjoy it.

And it was excellent stew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue here is rephrased from scripture, so if it sounds a bit odd, that may be why.


	196. 2060 BC - Haran, Mesopotamia

_2060 BC. Haran, Mesopotamia_.

Aziraphale rapped on the door to Jacob’s room, then stepped back to wait. The boy could be quite drowsy in the mornings, but Aziraphale had patience on his side. 

He’d been off on a blessing assignment in Ur for a few weeks, and returned to Canaan only to find that Jacob had at long last set out in search of a wife. It was in part likely Aziraphale’s own fault, having lingered in Ur slightly longer than was strictly necessary, but to his credit he hadn’t had any idea the boy had marital aspirations.

Isaac directed him here, and Aziraphale went door to door until he found someone who’d seen Jacob. The humans had been less than happy to see him so early in the morning, but he was sure to bless all of them to compensate for their troubles on his behalf.

He knocked on Jacob’s door again.

“What?” Jacob’s voice was drowsy and muffled by the door.

“It’s me,” said Aziraphale. “Open up.”

“What?”

“Me.”

“Who?”

“Really, Jacob. It’s _me_ , Asir-fell.” He huffed. “I’ve only known you your whole life, no need to pretend like you know—”

The door swung open, revealing a Jacob, looking disgruntled, his curls flattened on one side. “Asir-fell, I know you don’t sleep, but it wouldn’t hurt for you to let those of us who do, sleep when we’re asleep.”

“Of course I sleep,” Aziraphale lied. “Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not.” Jacob ran a hand over his face. “What is it, then?”

“I heard you’re married.”

Jacob leaned his forehead against the doorframe and groaned at length before looking at Aziraphale again out the corner of his eye. “You heard I just got married and decided to come pull me out of bed in the wee hours of the morning?”

Oh. Well, when he put it like that it sounded rather… hmm. Best not let on. “It’s not the wee hours. The sun is above the horizon. Er. On the horizon. Cresting the horizon.” He paused. “Does that mean you’re not married, then?”

“Not yet. Laban’s having me work for him for seven years first.”

Aziraphale gasped. “But that’s positively ghastly! Where is he? I’ll bring him around, you—”

“No, Asir-fell, it’s all right.” Jacob yawned. “We’ve already struck the deal and all. And Rachel’s worth it. Don’t worry about me.”

He pursed his lips. “It just seems an awfully rude thing to do. It’s not as though you’re some rakish young thing come to steal away his daughters. You’re rather, er… settled. And not terribly young.”

“Thanks, Asir-fell. I _really_ needed to hear that.”

“I’m delighted to have been of service.” 

Jacob sighed. “Look, I’m going back to bed. I’ve got a lot of work to do today. Go bother Laban if you want, but it won’t do any good.”

“Jacob—”

“Thank you for coming, Asir-fell. Good _night_.”

The door shut in his face. Aziraphale tutted and turned away. How rude. He’d only meant to wish him well. 

Oh, well. Perhaps he could find this Laban fellow, and give him a piece of his mind. 


	197. 2053 BC - Haran, Mesopotamia

_2053 BC. Haran, Mesopotamia._

Aziraphale rolled his seal over the soft clay of the letter he’d written and snapped his fingers to miracle it hard. He’d have to wait a few hours for it to have believably dried, but he didn’t fancy firing up the kiln at this time of night. 

The wedding today had been a bit of a disaster. Poor Jacob spent seven years working to marry the woman he loved, only to be diddled out of it at the last moment. Not to mention dear Leah, saddled with a man everyone knew loved her sister.

He’d post the letter in the morning. Isaac hadn’t been able to travel for the wedding, with his vision beginning to fail. Perhaps that was for the best, though, considering how it turned out.

A soft knock sounded at the door of his room and he turned to look at it, frowning. “Hello?”

“It’s Jacob.” A pause. “Can I come in?”

Aziraphale stood and opened the door quickly, ushering him in and letting him sit on the bed. The poor fellow looked simply dreadful, hair mussed, with circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. 

“How is Leah?” Aziraphale asked.

“Fine,” Jacob said. “She’s… fine.”

He pursed his lips in sympathy. “And you?”

Jacob made a distressed noise.

“Oh, my dear boy.” Aziraphale sat down next to him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “You’re going to be all right.”

Jacob leaned into him with a whine, then began sobbing quietly.

Aziraphale gathered him up in his arms. “There, there. Shh. It’s going to be all right.”

He started sobbing harder. “I just—I just—” 

Aziraphale patted him gently on the head. This really wasn’t his purview. Oh, well. 

“It’s going to be all right,” he said again, imbuing the words with just a smidge of divine persuasion. 

Jacob got quieter. 

That was good. He’d hate for someone else to wake to this. 

“You can go to Laban in the morning,” Aziraphale said. “He’ll understand, and we can talk it over, and—well, everything will be okay again.”

There was a damp spot on his shoulder now. Would Jacob notice if he miracled it away? He seemed rather preoccupied, what with all the weeping. Still. Perhaps it was best not to disturb him.

It was terribly damp and unpleasant, though.

After a time, Jacob’s sobbing trailed off, replaced by wet hiccoughs. 

Ought Aziraphale thump him on the back? That had worked when he was smaller. It might be a bit odd, though.

“We’ll talk to Laban,” Jacob said.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Yes. Of course.”

“I’ll marry Rachel,” said Jacob. “And if—and if Laban doesn’t let us, we’ll elope.”

Aziraphale frowned. “He hasn’t turned you down yet. Best not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Right.” Jacob sniffed. “Right. Good idea.”

“Will you be missed?”

Jacob shrugged. “We both know what happened.”

“She is your wife now,” said Aziraphale as gently as he could.

Jacob groaned and pulled away. “I hate you.”

“Surely you don’t mean that.”

He scowled at him. “Fine, I’ll go back to Leah. But I don’t have to be happy about it.”

“There’s a good chap,” said Aziraphale. “I’m sure it will work out in the end.”

Jacob left and shut the door quietly.

Oh, dear. Seven years seemed an awfully long time to wait to marry someone. Still, he had it on good authority Jacob would live long enough that it would be worth it in the end. 


	198. 2040 BC - The River Jabbok

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence.

_2040 BC. The River Jabbok, Jordan_.

Aziraphale handed the last tent to Leah, who loaded it on a mule. “You’re quite sure you’ll be all right?”

She nodded, fastening the last strap, then straightened up again, wiping her brow. “I should be asking you that.”

“Not at all,” said Aziraphale. “Believe me, I’ll enjoy a bit of peace and quiet.”

Leah nodded once and took her youngest boy’s hand to catch up with the rest of the family, who were already walking toward a copse of trees not far away. 

He’d volunteered to wait on the riverbank with Jacob while the family and some of the servants went farther away. They’d been trying to return home, but Esau was a bit tetchy and had threatened to send four hundred men against them. 

A separate convoy of servants went ahead with gifts for Esau, but they hadn’t heard whether he would accept. In case things turned sour, Leah, Rachel, and the boys, along with their servants, were to spend the night on the other side of the river. Esau’s men wouldn’t dare cross in the dark. 

All that left Jacob on his own on the side of the river nearer Canaan. He’d seemed more than a little strange all day, getting more jumpy as night fell. And, inexplicably enough, he’d asked Aziraphale to stay with him. 

Aziraphale wasn’t about to argue, of course. Young Joseph had taken a shine to him of late, so he was happy to have a reason not to go with the family.

Jacob stood alone now, many paces off, silhouetted against the grey-blue twilight sky and the setting sun.

Aziraphale glanced back to where Leah walked with the boy and the goat, then snapped his fingers, depositing himself on the side of the river with Jacob. No one was looking, and Jacob seemed too preoccupied to notice anything really amiss. And his robes were barely dry from crossing the river the first time. 

As the sun sank below the horizon, a sense of holiness washed over him, tugging at his Angelic essence. He gasped. “Lord?”

He thought he heard the echo of a chuckle, but it might have been the wind, too.

Across the scrub, holy light blossomed in the darkness. He might have been able to make out Jacob’s form, but couldn’t quite be sure.

Aziraphale sat on the bank of the river, watching. Something was clearly happening, but it was equally clear that he was not meant to be involved. 

It was strange—he’d heard no mention of a visit from the Almighty. He’d have thought that sort of thing would merit some sort of warning or preparation. Perhaps they trusted him so much they hadn’t thought it necessary.

Yes, that must be it. 

Across the plain, Her light warped and rippled all night long. Aziraphale didn’t dare close his eyes, watching with all the divine devotion at his disposal. 

As day broke in the east, Jacob became visible again.

“ _LET ME GO,_ ” Her voice said, ringing clear all the way to Aziraphale. “ _IT’S MORNING_.”

Aziraphale sat even straighter. Oh, goodness. He hadn’t thought he would hear Her again, not after the business with the sword. Not even from afar like this.

He could see Jacob’s jaw moving, though he couldn’t make out the words.

“ _WHAT’S YOUR NAME?_ ” Another pause. “ _NOT ANYMORE. YOU ARE ISRAEL NOW, BECAUSE YOU WRESTLED GOD AND FOUGHT HUMANS, AND WON._ ”

The pause was longer this time, Jacob gesticulating. 

“ _WHY DO YOU NEED TO KNOW MY NAME?_ ” A laugh rang out, raising the hairs on Aziraphale’s arms with a smell like lightning. Then a blessing rolled over the plain, many times more powerful than those Aziraphale employed, and the Almighty’s light vanished.

Jacob dropped sideways to the ground.

Oh dear. That would likely be a tad overwhelming, wouldn’t it? 

Aziraphale got to his feet and hurried across the plain, pausing once to detangle himself when his clothes caught on a particularly thorny bit of scrub. When he reached Jacob, the human’s eyes were fluttered, his clothing soaked with sweat.

“Jacob? Er, that is, Israel?” That would take some getting used to. Aziraphale dropped to his knees. “Come on, old chap. Pip-pip.” He snapped his fingers, drying Jacob’s— _Israel’s_ clothes. Under any other circumstances, he’d attempt to heal him, but the poor fellow was likely swamped with holy energy as it was.

He conjured up a damp cloth and touched it gingerly to Israel’s forehead. Perhaps he ought to work out how human healing worked. Oh, well. One couldn’t do everything.

Israel’s eyes flew open and he lunged, tackling Aziraphale.

There was a dreadfully uncomfortable moment after Aziraphale hit the dirt when his body forgot how to breathe. “Steady on,” he said faintly, then managed a gasping inhale. 

Israel’s grip didn’t loosen, so Aziraphale carefully pried his hands off. “It’s just me,” he said. “Asir-fell. Are you quite all right?”

Israel blinked once, then sat back. “This place is called Peniel.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s called Peniel because I—because I saw God and She spared my life.”

“I hardly think She’d have killed you,” said Aziraphale, standing up and dusting himself off as best he could without using his abilities. “Now, then. I’m sure your wives are worried. Can you walk?”

“Think so,” said Israel, then staggered to his feet. He swayed dangerously, favouring one leg, then grabbed Aziraphale’s arm. 

“Dear me,” said Aziraphale. “How did that happen?”

“God touched my hip.” He sounded a trifle addled. 

“I see. Do you think you can manage walking if I lend some assistance?”

Israel swung an arm over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “’Course I can.”

“Quite.” Aziraphale began walking slowly toward the river, slowing to match Israel’s pace.

“Don’t have to go so slow.”

“I rather think I do. You’re limping.”

“Oh,” said Israel. “You’re right. Thanks, Aziraphale.”

At the use of his real name, Aziraphale nearly dropped him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that’s a real thing that happens in scripture. I can’t say I get it, but it sure is interesting.


	199. 2029 BC - Hebron, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for minor character death, grief, and referenced murder.

_2029 BC. Hebron, Canaan._

Aziraphale stepped out of his tent and stretched. He could smell cooking already—Israel’s handiwork, judging by the scent. He’d never given it up, even with more people around now. His lentil stew in particular was very good. 

The boys were meant to return soon. They’d been off on a trip to graze the sheep. In Sechem, if his memory served him. Though why the sheep needed to graze all the way over there was a mystery. 

Then again, Aziraphale had decided back when Abel began raising sheep that he needn’t bother with the particulars of shepherding. Sheep were useful insofar as they provided wool and milk, but in most other respects were terribly smelly and generally unpleasant. 

In the centre of the village, Israel sat, stirring a pot. Rachel stood nearby, and they seemed rather swept up in one another’s company. 

It was a lovely thing. They seemed rather happy these days now they were married, though the seven years of labour had seemed a bit much. 

“Asir-fell!” Rachel seemed to spot him and gestured greeting. “Have you seen the boys?”

“No, not yet, I’m afraid.” He joined them. “That smells simply scrummy, Israel.”

“Thank you.” Israel picked up a small piece of meat to examine, then put it back in the pot, apparently unsatisfied. 

Not long after the Almighty’s appearance, Israel had stopped calling Aziraphale by his proper name,* which was very helpful for maintaining the illusion of humanity. Either way, it was much better than switching spontaneously and potentially sparking difficult questions.

(* Except for when Israel was overtired or intoxicated)

A shout sounded from the edge of camp, signalling the boys’ return. Jacob glanced at Aziraphale and offered the handle of the spoon. “Would you?”

“Of course.” Aziraphale took the spoon. “Run along, then.”

Israel took his cane from where it lay on the ground and he and Rachel went to greet the boys.

Aziraphale hummed, and gave the pot a significant look. It would not burn if he could help it. 

The soup bubbled meekly. 

Someone screamed, a torn-up sound of grief.

Aziraphale’s stomach plummeted. 

He dropped the spoon and ran for the edge of the village. Israel was knelt on the ground, hunched over something Aziraphale couldn’t quite make out, Rachel beside him, holding him. 

The boys stood around, looking various degrees of sombre, grief-stricken, and ill. Aziraphale counted heads, but came up one short.

Oh, _f… fiddlesticks_.

Who was missing, then? Reuben, Judah, and Dan were there… Naphtali, Simeon, and Benjamin… Levi— Joseph. Joseph was missing. 

Aziraphale swallowed.

No wonder Israel seemed so out of sorts. He’d always seemed to favour Joseph, however much Aziraphale tried to dissuade him.

He turned and went back to the soup. They’d need something to eat, no doubt. 

This would take some getting used to. Poor Joseph had been rather sweet, if a bit spoiled. A tear prickled the corner of his eye, but he blinked it away. 

He’d had quite enough grief for one lifetime, thank you very much.


	200. 2016 BC - Waset, Egypt

_2016 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Crawly glanced across the room. The new vizier looked at home, chatting up Kheti, the treasurer. Half the court was up in arms over the vizier’s appointment. Crawly would thank the bloke if it wouldn’t seem strange. Dagi, who’d lost his post, was the worst.

Speaking of.

“He didn’t even do anything!” Dagi was halfway to sozzled, gesticulating with his wine. “Just—just interpreted some dreams. I can interpret bloody _dreams_.”

“’Course you can.” Crawly took a sip of his own wine, though he was holding off best he could for now. On the job and all. “You told ol’ Mentuhotep that?”

Dagi shook his head violently. “I shouldn’t.”

“Want to, though, don’t you?”

“Upstart.” Dagi glowered across the room at the new vizier. 

Crawly really ought to learn his name. It was something long and pompous, he knew that. Zaphen-something. 

Dagi was still glaring at him, whatever his name was.

“I’ve got it,” said Crawly. “Why not tell him?”

“No,” said Dagi quickly. “Bad idea. The Pharaoh likes him.”

Crawly shook his head. “I mean tell _him_. The bloke. Zaphen.”

“Zaphenath-Paneah.” Dagi still hadn’t stopped glaring. His dedication was almost impressive, or would be if he weren’t two degrees away from pouring wine all over the floor.

Crawly took a step back.

“I heard he was called something else before,” Dagi said. “Joseph, I think.”

The cup tipped the rest of the way, spilling red wine all over the floor and Dagi’s kilt. Dagi swore loudly, summoning a pair of unfortunate serving boys. 

Crawly slipped away. If he was right, Dagi would be asleep too soon for any proper temptations to happen.

When Crawly arrived on the other side of the room, the new vizier seemed to have moved on from the treasurer, instead surveying the crowd with a distant expression on his face. Crawly drew up behind him. “Hi,” he said. 

The new vizier turned quickly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

“Khural,” Crawly supplied. “Adjunct advisor to the Pharaoh.”

“Ah. I’m Jose—that is, Zaphenath-Paneah.”

Crawly laughed. “Mouthful, that.”

“It really is.” Joseph’s shoulders seemed to relax. 

“Mind if I call you Joseph? Only when the Pharaoh’s not in earshot, of course.”

“If you prefer.”

“How is court life suiting you?” Crawly took a sip of wine. It was excellent wine. One of the benefits of going back to court instead of staying the gardener indefinitely. 

Joseph shrugged. “I’m still in shock, I think. You know I was a prisoner before this?”

“So I’ve heard. Word travels fast here.” Crawly paused. “What were you in prison for, exactly?” 

“A misunderstanding,” said Joseph tightly. “I don’t like to talk about it.”

Crawly raised an eyebrow, then realized belatedly it wouldn’t be visible behind his veil. “Mysterious,” he said instead. “Does the Pharaoh know?”

Joseph didn’t say anything.

“Well, aren’t you full of secrets.” This could be quite a leg up, depending on what Joseph went to prison for. ‘Corrupting a vizier’ and all that. He let his gaze drift out over the crowd. “How long has your family been in Egypt?” Joseph didn’t look quite like the locals, but had no trace of accent, so it seemed likely he’d been around a while.

“It’s just me.”

“Really? Your Egyptian is excellent.”

“A family friend taught me. He said he lived in Memphis, but I’m not sure how that worked, since he’s lived with my family as long as anyone can remember.”

Crawly coughed. Just his luck. Though, maybe it was totally innocent. “Fussy bloke, this? White hair?”

Joseph turned to look at him, expression one of shock. “How do you know that?”

Oh, bless it, Crawly wasn’t meant to know that. And, that meant that this was one of Aziraphale’s human charges. “Er. Lucky guess?”

“Right,” said Joseph. “Excuse me.”

Crawly watched him walk away. Well, there went any chance of a temptation that actually counted for something. If only he’d kept his bloody mouth shut, that could’ve been one for the ages.

Might as well have walked up and opened with, ‘I’d like to talk you into joining the ranks of the damned. Fancy some sin?’ 

Crawly finished his wine. Well. The night was young. Time to get a move on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley’s title is 100% made up.
> 
> Edit: MagicalQueerFolk pointed out that this is pretty confusing without Biblical context. Thank you! Anyway, basically, Joseph's brothers were jealous of him because Jacob/Israel liked him better, so they left him out in the desert and told the family he was dead. Joseph was picked up by Egyptian slave traders and by a series of weird happenings ended up imprisoned by the Pharaoh for several years. He then predicted dreams accurately, which impressed the Pharaoh, who released him, named him Zaphenath-Paneah, and made him vizier. Dagi is the name of an actual, historical vizier from around 2016 BC, not from the Bible.


	201. 2007 BC - Goshen, Egypt

_2007 BC. Goshen, Egypt._

Aziraphale stood at the edge of camp, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun. In the distance, he could see a chariot approaching, drawn by two brown horses,* a cloud of dust billowing behind it. 

(* Upon his introduction to horses, Aziraphale had been at first immensely relieved to find that unicorns had survived the Flood, then saddened to find that they had not. He was as yet still rather unfamiliar, though, and thus had yet to form more comprehensive opinions beyond a general awareness that they existed and were not unicorns.)

Farther out, Israel and Rachel were waiting, arm-in-arm for their son to arrive. They had all been rather surprised to hear he was alive. Aziraphale in particular had been rather confused by all the business with the money and silver cup.

The chariot stopped beyond the edge of the camp, and a single figure dismounted.

Joseph looked quite different from how he had when Aziraphale last saw him. He was older, of course, but more than that was dressed in what must have been the modern Egyptian fashions—a white kilt and golden jewelry.

Israel embraced him, and they exchanged words, though Aziraphale didn’t listen in. It seemed rude to interrupt such a tearful reunion.

Aziraphale waited until the greetings and introductions—or re-introductions, as the case may be—were finished. The family all ushered Joseph toward the entrance, some running ahead.

Joseph paused when he reached Aziraphale. “Asir-fell.” He sounded slightly awed. Oh dear. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“I’m sure I have,” said Aziraphale quickly. 

“I met a friend of yours in Waset.” Joseph paused, making eye contact with some of the family and gesturing for them to go on without him. “An advisor in the court.”

Aziraphale frowned. Anyone he knew in Egypt was certainly dead by now, and even if they weren’t, they’d be in Memphis, not Waset. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Khural,” said Joseph. “I don’t know him very well, but he’s mentioned you a few times.”

Oh, good lord. “I have no idea who you’re talking about,” said Aziraphale quickly. “And even if I did, he wouldn’t be my friend.”

Why on Earth would Crawly have talked about him? Though perhaps it was for the best he didn’t understand the machinations of a Demon. 

“I see,” said Joseph. “Perhaps he just knew someone very like you.”

“That must have been it.”

Joseph still looked rather suspicious. Still, there wasn’t much else he could do, was there? Short of modifying Joseph’s memory, and he couldn’t very well do that. 

“Welcome back,” said Aziraphale, then smiled. Belated, perhaps. 

“Thank you.” Joseph smiled as well, but dropped it before walking away to join his family.

Aziraphale sighed. Hopefully, Joseph wouldn’t be too terribly interested in all that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is one third of this project complete! 120k words, 200 scenes, and 2,000 years in a bit over three months. Thank you everyone who's joining me-- I'm having an excellent time reading comments. Regular updates will continue as usual tomorrow.


	202. 2003 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied/referenced anti-Semitism and xenophobia.

_2003 BC. Waset, Egypt_.

Aziraphale added a handful of nuts to his bag and thanked the vendor selling them, then reentered the market, humming. He’d use the nuts to make more ink for his work. That is, for the scribal work he kept up for appearances.

His real work was rather less concerned with ink, though he did have one more stop in that vein before he went back home. He was assigned to bless a sculptor. Or something like that. The instructions had been rather vague. It might be a sculptor, or some sort of orator. Someone ‘inspirational to their fellow humans.’ 

At any rate, he’d been alert for any discussions of inspirational people, and recently heard about a sculptor. So that was who he would be blessing. 

All Aziraphale had to do was find the man, which was seeming a rather more difficult prospect than he’d initially expected.

Waset was not a small city, and full of quite a lot of humans. Some of whom were increasingly hostile to people such as himself. 

He’d been pleasantly surprised after moving to Egypt to discover that he no longer appeared strictly Sumerian. Though it was likely due to the fact he hadn’t been to Sumer in rather longer than a human lifespan. 

Still, he intended to make the most of it. Besides, any xenophobic sentiments would likely be a moot point for this particular assignment. The sculptor was, near as he could figure, Israel’s great-grandson.

The dear fellow had far too many children for Aziraphale to keep track of them all, much less _their_ children. 

He turned onto a street lined by artisans’ shops, and stopped short.

Crawly was here somewhere. Not close enough that he needed to worry about meeting them, but here. Somewhere in Waset.

Aziraphale had thus far been lucky enough to stay outside the city, though he feared the larger concentrations of humans would drive him in soon. 

Being near Crawly again was a risk. Though Heaven seemed to have accepted his own earlier judgements against Demons as a category, he was no longer entirely certain he’d been correct. Of course, Crawly would say that he couldn’t have been wrong… but that was so far from the point it was nearly the opposite, wasn’t it?

“Are you looking for someone?” A human stood on the stoop of one of the workshops, one hand covered in wet clay. They spoke Hebrew.

“Yes.” Aziraphale blinked and shook his head quickly to clear it. “Terribly sorry. I was just looking for Zebulun?”

“Three shops down.” The human indicated the direction. “He might be out now.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale blessed them lightly—not much, just enough to keep them in slightly better spirits for a week or so. “Have a lovely afternoon.”

The human smiled and ducked back into their shop.

Aziraphale sighed. Well. Best get on with things. 


	203. 1987 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for anti-Semitism and reference to slavery.

_1987 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Crawly pushed open the door to one of the smaller halls in the palace. A group of maybe half a dozen humans—officials and servants both—clustered around a table, where they seemed to be examining a papyrus. 

The servant who’d summoned him scuttled off to the other side of the room. 

He went up to the ones gathered around the table. “What’s all this, then? Invented a new game?”

“Lord Khural.” One of the other nobles—Meketre, if Crawly remembered correctly—moved aside. “It’s good you’re here. The Pharaoh has a new proposal for his tomb.”

“Oh?” Crawly tilted his head to see the papyrus, then swallowed hard when he recognized the image on it. “I see.” Blast it all, he’d thought they were done building pyramids. Bloody waste of work and resources, that.

“I think it’s magnificent,” a different one said. He was younger—the treasurer, maybe? Ipi, his name was. “A good reminder of the Pharaoh’s divine might.”

Crawly tried not to let anything show on his face. He’d taken credit for the last lot, after all. Couldn’t look too… happy. “Won’t that be a lot of effort? I mean, glory to the Pharaoh and all that, but think about the manpower needed. Not to mention materials. Do we even _have_ active limestone quarries these days?”

Ipi scoffed. “You’re getting old, Lord Khural. Mentuhotep was a coward. We—”

“Which one?”

“What?”

“Which Mentuhotep?”

Ipi rolled his eyes. “The last one. Which one did you think?”

Crawly shrugged. It had seemed like a good stalling tactic. And it worked, he just hadn’t thought of anything. 

“We still have slaves from the campaigns in the East,” Meketre said. “And plans for more campaigning in Kush.”

Ugh. Humans were so clever sometimes. Just not, apparently, when it was in their best interest. This lot had their own ideas about immortal souls, after all.

Either way, he had one advantage over all of them: he knew what actual pyramid-building was like. “A pyramid’s a big undertaking.” He motioned for a stylus and was handed one, as well as a fresh sheet of papyrus. “You’ve got to take into account the risks involved.” 

Crawly glanced at the dimensions of the proposed pyramid, then began scribbling down sums. “For a pyramid this size, even assuming you’re using local limestone and not the good stuff, it’d cost—well, see for yourself.” He underlined the number and tilted the paper so the others could see. “Then factor in the workers, yeah? Pyramid building’s arduous work, especially for people who aren’t used to the area.”

He looked up, glancing between the two noblemens’ faces. Ipi’s jaw hung open.

He’d overdone it, hadn’t he? Blast.

“You never said you were interested in pyramids,” said Ipi finally. “Either way, there has to be a way to avoid foreign workers, if that’s as much of a risk as you say it is.”

“Locals. Or…” Meketre’s eyes lit up. “What about the lot that came in during the famine? The ones from Canaan.”

“Israelites,” said Crawly absent-mindedly. “The vizier wouldn’t like that, though.” Which was totally true. Joseph was still vizier, still going around being absurdly virtuous. Crawly was lucky to have stayed in court this long, really. He was nearly certain Joseph knew what he was.

Stating a fact which happened to potentially dissuade people from an immoral course of action wasn’t inherently good, was it? Could be interpreted as… stirring up dissent in court. Yeah, that was it. Joseph was too good, had to set people against him.

Ipi shook his head, pushing Crawly’s papyrus back across the table at him. “He won’t be around much longer than a decade. He’s an old man. The Pharaoh is fit and healthy, too, so there’s no rush. And we have him on our side.”

“Mmm,” said Crawly.

To bad he hadn’t actually brought down Egypt the last time. He could use some government-collapsing skills right about now. Purely for sowing chaos and discord, of course. 


	204. 1977 BC - Goshen, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for anti-Semitism, violence, and enslavement.

_1977 BC. Goshen, Egypt._

A knock sounded at the door to Aziraphale’s house. He huffed. It was past dark, and he’d just started work on one of his commissions. He’d taken up scribe work again, and charged more since he spoke so many languages. 

The knock sounded again, this time followed by a shout in Egyptian. “Open up!”

Aziraphale set his stylus on its stand and stood, then went to open the door. Outside, a trio of Egyptian soldiers stood, two holding torches and one with a spear. 

He straightened up taller. The Egyptians had become increasingly unfriendly to Israel’s people over the years. “Good evening, gentlemen. I don’t suppose you’re here on a social call?”

“No,” said the spear-bearing soldier. “The Pharaoh has ordered the Israelites be brought to Itjtawy to build his pyramid.”

Ah. History repeats itself. Aziraphale pushed the uncomfortable emotions away and just frowned as politely as he could. “That doesn’t seem very sporting. I’ll be staying here, if you don’t mind.”

“It’s not a choice. Gather what you can carry and come with us.”

Aziraphale nodded once. “I see. Well, I’ll be staying here.”

The soldier took a menacing step forward. “You’re not.”

“Yes, I am.” He shut the door, and snapped his fingers to keep it shut. The soldiers tried to push it open, of course, but it wouldn’t budge. 

The real trouble wasn’t him, of course. He could keep a few pesky soldiers away. Even if they sent a larger portion of the army after him, he’d leave. He could kill them, of course, or send them somewhere far away, but that seemed terribly rude. 

No, the trouble was the rest of Israel’s descendants—Israelites, they called themselves now. There were so many of them, he could hardly rescue them all. Not without Heaven noticing, at any rate. 

Perhaps he could call in assistance?

No, it was best not to bother them with this. He wasn’t meant to get involved on a large scale, anyway. 

A small scale, though…

He turned decisively and miracled his work into a bag, which he slung over one shoulder, then went to the door and opened it. 

The soldiers who’d been trying to get in fell forward into the room, only the last one staying upright. Aziraphale caught the torch and picked it up off the ground. “Do be careful with that,” he said. “It can be rather painful if used irresponsibly.”

The standing soldier brandished a knife at him. “You’re not going anywhere, old man.”

Aziraphale sighed and plucked the knife from his hand, tucking it into his bag. “I am not a man. Really, weren’t you taught manners?”

Shadows on the ground shifted and Aziraphale stepped back to catch the shaft of a spear that had been pointing at him. He twisted, and pulled it from the hand of one of the soldiers who’d fallen.

“Are you quite finished?” Aziraphale looked between the soldiers. “I assure you, no weapons you have would be effective at the moment.” Off-guard, they might be, but he was paying attention now. He wasn’t Guardian of the Eastern Gate for nothing.

When none of the soldiers answered, he gave them a curt nod. “In that case, I highly recommend you return home and tender your resignation forthwith.” He turned away. “Farewell.”

They didn’t follow him, which was all the better for their health, really. In the meantime, he had work to do. People to spirit away, if only a few. 

He could hear someone sobbing not far off. 

Later, he’d do some translating. To keep his mind from thinking about it all. Mustn’t question. 


	205. 1972 BC - Itjtawy, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for use of alcohol as a coping mechanism and references to both slavery and torture.
> 
> There is a plain text version of the opening letter in the end notes below.

“ _DemOn CrAwly….._  
“ _it has c ome to OUR attention **that** you have Been doingg BAd workin your **post on e** ARTH. Prince BEelZebub would like to commend YOU on your success tempting the EgypTians to ensl **A** Ve the Israelites~_   
“ _Wor **S** t wishes;_  
“ _Dagon, Lord of the Tablets._ ”

***

_1972 BC. Itjtawy, Egypt._

Crawly flung the tablet across the room. It shattered against the wall and fell to the ground as shards and dust. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as he’d hoped it would be, so he snapped his fingers to put it back together. Then he collapsed back onto his bed. 

How did they keep doing this? Honestly. There hadn’t been any other Demons here in ages. Decades.

It was flattering, of course. Just bloody annoying. He _could_ write back and tell them he didn’t do it, but that was asking for trouble. If they found out on their own, though, he’d be in for it.

Not that they found out the last time around. This same thing happened with the pyramids. 

Well, the first round of pyramids.

“The real mystery here,” said Crawly to his empty room, “is what Heaven’s playing at. I mean, Israelites are the chosen people and all that. Literally the only humans on Earth actually following your divine strictures or whatever. And you’ve got Aziraphale with them.”

Probably shouldn’t bring Aziraphale into it. 

He sat up in bed and summoned a bottle of wine from Satan knew where, then uncorked it and took a drink. It wasn’t fantastic, but it definitely wasn’t the worst he’d ever had.

“Doesn’t make sense. I mean. Infinite love. Infinite power. You’d think they’d—oh, I don’t know. Save the humans from suffering, or something? Humans haven’t done anything wrong.”

He chuckled bitterly. “Then again, it’s not like you lot care about actual _justice_. Case in point.” Crawly gestured to himself, a bit more drunkenly than he really should be considering how little wine he’d had.

Not his fault if he willed the wine stronger, was it?

Probably was. 

Still.

He took another sip. More than a sip. Wine. 

“Is that it? They asked questions, and now they have to suffer? Bloody rotten thing to do to ’em if you ask me. But of course you’re not asking me.” He tilted his head, feeling the hardness of the wall against the back of his skull. “Whole point. Demon. Blah blah blah.”

He sat in silence for a moment, staring at the tablet on the floor across the room. He could almost see the outlines of Dagon’s mangled approximation of cuneiform. 

“Even if I wanted to,” he said, letting his words slur, “I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t. I got a commendation for making it happen. Bloody unfair. One tiny mistake and I’m sentenced to do evil for the rest of my days. Or get tortured. Or whatever they’d do to me.”

Not a pleasant thought, that. His imagination was improving at an alarming rate, and he wasn’t sure he liked it.

“You lot, on the other hand. You can do good. It’s your whole bloody job, and you’re not fucking doing it. Where does that leave us, then, eh? Demons can’t do good. And you lot just don’t because you’re a bunch of...”

He should probably stop. Demon or not. He was drunk. Very, very drunk. More drunk than he ought to be.

Crawly banished the bottle across the room. Could he un-drunk himself? 

There had to be a better word for that.

Had to do with… blood, didn’t it?

He screwed his face up and concentrated, then shuddered. There was a horrible taste in his mouth. 

Ugh. 

The tablet taunted him from the corner, so he slid down the wall again to lay in bed and stare at the ceiling. He had to go into court tomorrow. Maybe he should just say he’d died. Everyone thought ‘Lord Khural’ was too old anyway. He could cool off and come back in a decade or so. 

Crawly deserved it, anyway. After all. He did have a commendation. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plain text version of Dagon's letter:  
> “Demon Crawly,  
> “It has come to our attention that you have been doing bad work in your post on Earth. Prince Beelzebub would like to commend you on your success tempting the Egyptians to enslave the Israelites.  
> “Worst wishes,  
> “Dagon, Lord of the Tablets.”  
> End plain text.
> 
> For the record, the letter is in Comic Sans in my files, but alas I could not work out how to make that show up on Ao3 or if it's even possible.  
> Edit 2 March 2021: I got it! Ha!


	206. 1960 BC - Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for emotional abuse/gaslighting (Heaven) and references to slavery.

_1960 BC. Heaven._

“It’s good to see you again, Aziraphale,” said Gabriel, striding toward Aziraphale across the empty expanse of Heaven. “How are God’s beloved creations?” They stopped in front of Aziraphale.

“The Israelites, you mean? Or humans in general?” Aziraphale paused. “The answers are rather different, you see.”

“Either one,” said Gabriel jovially.

It almost sounded as though they didn’t care, but of course that couldn’t be true. 

“Well, the Israelites are in a bad way these days. They’ve been enslaved, you see. Famine forced them into Egypt, which was all right until the Egyptians decided to revive pyramid-building.”

Gabriel made a sympathetic expression. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Rather. I don’t suppose I could… do something about it? Of course I didn’t want to interfere without permission, but—”

“Not yet,” said Gabriel. “There are things afoot, to do with the Plan.”

Oh dear. Well. He had considered that possibility. “I see. I don’t suppose I could know when they’ll be freed.”

“No. It’s on a strict need-to-know basis. Wouldn’t want you spoiling the anticipation down there.”

Aziraphale smiled as best he could while Gabriel laughed.

When he’d stopped laughing, Gabriel cleared his throat. “Well. Before we get into your actual report, there is one small matter of… Heavenly business.”

“What’s that?” 

“It’s Sandalphon. You remember Sandalphon?”

“How could I forget?” Aziraphale laughed quickly, the sound high and strained to his own ears.

Gabriel didn’t notice. “Of course! Well, you remember they were going to teach the other Angels human language?”

“Yes.”

“They’ve run into some… difficulties.”

“How unfortunate.”

“Which means I have good news for you!”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “Oh, jolly good. What might that be?”

“You’re being recalled,” said Gabriel.

“Ah.” Recalled. To Heaven. “How… wonderful!”

“I knew you’d be excited. Of course, it’ll be a few decades to straighten out the paperwork, but the other Archangels and I discussed it. We think the next step in defeating Hell is taking back our foothold on Earth.”

“I see. Will I return?”

Gabriel shrugged. “We’d have to discuss it when the time came.”

Well, then. At least he’d have some time to get things in order on Earth. He’d have to be careful not to become acquainted with any humans in the meantime. 

“Uriel will be replacing you,” said Gabriel. “They’ll join you on Earth within the decade, and you can teach them the ropes before you ascend.”

Aziraphale nodded. He didn’t know Uriel very well. He’d seen them around, of course, before he came to Earth, but always from a distance.

“Aziraphale?”

He blinked. “Beg your pardon, Gabriel.” 

Gabriel sighed. “You have to pay attention, Aziraphale.”

“Yes, Gabriel.”

“We’re all counting on you to do your job.”

He swallowed. “Of course. I’ll hop to it as soon as I return.”

“Good.” Gabriel clapped his hands. “All right! Highlights of the last reporting period?”

“Oh, er, well.” He cleared his throat. “Quite a lot of it I’m sure you know about already. I stopped Abraham sacrificing his son Isaac without revealing myself, and made sure all the requisite weddings went smoothly. I kept an eye on Israel when he wrestled the Almighty, and—”

“Israel?”

“Jacob, at the time. She renamed him after the match.” 

“She… God did?”

“Yes. Of course. You didn’t know?”

Gabriel laughed loudly. “Of course I knew! Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale… buddy. I’m the Archangel Gabriel, of course I know what God does on Earth.” He narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t… doubt me, did you?”

“No, no.” Aziraphale waved his hands and shook his head quickly. “What an absurd idea.”

“It _is_ absurd.” 


	207. 1949 BC - Itjtawy, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of discorporation.

_1949 BC. Itjtawy, Egypt._

Crawly watched his most recent temptation run away across the market. If he’d done his job right, she was on her way to nick the keys to a granary and start siphoning off the wheat for her own gains. It would throw off the Egyptian city management’s plans, which boded well for bad tempers all around.

The human vanished between two houses, and Crawly turned to head the other direction. That was the third temptation of the day. He was also running two long-term temptations, but those could wait. He’d just planted new ideas for evil, and the humans needed some time to adjust.

Until then, he had time to kill. 

Aziraphale was in the city. Crawly’d begun sensing him around Itjtawy in the last month or so. The Angelic presence seemed stronger than usual. Maybe Aziraphale’d gotten a promotion. 

Could Angels get promotions? 

Demons could. And demoted, of course. Kept everyone on their toes. 

He really shouldn’t go find Aziraphale. Unless he was staking out the competition. Yeah, that worked. He ought to sort out why the Angelic presence was stronger, after all.

And it was definitely stronger. He was getting closer now, and even though he couldn’t see Aziraphale yet, he felt more powerful than Crawly remembered. It made his skin prickle, and the more Demonic part of him was whispering that he probably shouldn’t be walking toward it.

Still. It was Aziraphale. They had the truce and all. 

He rounded a corner and stopped. Across the road, he could see Aziraphale, who appeared to be talking to someone just out of sight. 

He looked normal enough, but his posture seemed strange. Tense. 

Crawly took a few steps forward, and the other person Aziraphale was talking to came into view. They looked spectacularly out of place, dressed in white linen robes not unlike the ones Aziraphale had worn in Eden. 

Oh. 

Oh, shit. 

Crawly turned and ran back the way he’d come. He couldn’t make himself disappear and reappear elsewhere—the Angels would sense that. 

He’d gone a few streets before he skidded into an alley and sank to the ground, panting. No wonder they felt so much more powerful; there were two of them. And if Crawly wasn’t mistaken, the other Angel was an Archangel. 

Uriel, maybe. He was rusty on names, through. Could’ve been… Mike-iel? That couldn’t be right. 

Had Aziraphale brought them down? Didn’t look like it. If anything, Aziraphale looked halfway miserable. 

Crawly had half a mind to discorporate the Archangel out of hand. It would be a terrible idea, of course—or an excellent way to get discorporated himself. And wouldn’t that be just wizard. 

So now he just had to avoid Angels. Ugh. Hopefully, the new one would go on back to Heaven soon, so he could get on with his business. 


	208. 1939 BC - Itjtawy, Egypt

_1939 BC. Itjtawy, Egypt._

Aziraphale cast a glance around his house. He’d only lived in this city about decade now, but he’d accumulated his possessions over centuries. He couldn’t bring many of them to Heaven, so he had to part with most of them now. 

Really, it shouldn’t be so difficult. They were just… material objects. Below the regard of an Angel. 

Still. There was a sort of ache at the idea of never seeing them again. Or worse, the idea they might be destroyed!

The trouble was, there was no one to give them to. He didn’t trust any of the humans well enough to care for them. And Uriel… well, Uriel was an exemplary Angel, but not much for sentiment. They’d made that clear quite quickly.

There _was_ a third option, in a way. A non-option. It didn’t bear thinking about.

It had been strange, the last decade. Crawly was in the city. That much he was certain of. But they’d been avoiding him. Likely because of Uriel. She’d mentioned nearly discorporating them two or three years back.

He wasn’t pleased with it, of course. It seemed a little shameful, though he technically hadn’t reneged on the treaty. Aziraphale just kept remembering the time—five hundred years ago, now—when Crawly actually stopped another Demon attempting to discorporate him. 

Still. There was absolutely nothing to be done. Crawly was his Adversary. He couldn’t very well ask them to look after his various and sundry tablets and scrolls. They’d probably laugh in his face, or worse, destroy them while he was away. 

Actually, no, they wouldn’t do that. 

Hmm.

Besides, it might not even help, even if they did somehow resist their Demonic nature long enough to keep his things in good condition. He might not be coming back to Earth at all. 

Aziraphale ought to be excited about it. He _was_ excited about it. 

He’d be returning to Heaven! He could speak to like-minded Angels and not have to tolerate morally ambiguous, sin-ridden humans anymore. He could… listen to the celestial harmonies without worrying about returning to Earth on time. 

Oh dear.

At least he’d be bringing some things from Earth. Not souvenirs, per se. He’d described them as ‘teaching aids.’ And he’d retrieve the linguistic notes he already sent up from the Communications, Records, and Visions department when he arrived. 

He was hopeful they’d assist him in making the adjustment back to life in Heaven.

A knock sounded at the door and he turned. “Hello?”

The door opened. “Aziraphale,” said Uriel, her Egyptian accent crisp as anything after twelve years on Earth. “You’re late.”

“I’m terribly sorry. I was just, er. Gathering my thoughts.”

“Gather them in Heaven.”

He nodded once. “Jolly good. I’ll just, er. Be off, then.” He made his way toward the door and slipped past Uriel, who watched him with narrowed eyes. Or perhaps her expression was blank. She was rather difficult to read. He paused in the middle of the street and turned back to her. “Good-bye. Mind how you go.”

“Good-bye, Aziraphale.”

He swallowed. Right. Off to Heaven. He nodded again and turned to hurry toward the entrance. 


	209. 1928 BC - Itjtawy, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence and ableist language (not the r-word).

_1928 BC. Itjtawy, Egypt_.

Crawly fidgeted. He’d been waiting in a small room for the better part of an hour, so fidgeting was warranted, in his opinion. It had been his idea to move the entrance to Hell into a building for privacy, but the move had destroyed any motivation Hell had previously had to be punctual. He wasn’t about to admit that this was his own fault, though. 

Had to be a rule against that, actually. Even if it was an unspoken one. 

Still, hiding the entrance seemed like a smart idea at the time. The Angel had been about at all the most inopportune times. He hadn’t realized how lucky he’d been with Aziraphale, but he got it now. Two odd near-discorporations a year was not pleasant.

And that was another reason he was here. Dagon actually read his last report and for some reason—spite, probably—passed the ‘Angelic Altercation’ report on to the Dark Council. 

So now they were sending up Beelzebub. Which was ridiculous. Crawly was handling Uriel just fine, Archangel or not. Apparently the Dark Council didn’t agree.

Crawly just hoped he wouldn’t be reassigned back to Hell. It was literal Hell, after all. And the thing was… he was liking Earth, these days. He was allowed that much, wasn’t he? Certainly in the privacy of his own mind. 

The door in the floor opened with the snap and crackle of Demonic magic, revealing the top of Beelzebub’s head. 

Crawly stood up straighter as zze surfaced properly and dropped into his signature bow as zze surveyed the room.

The door settled back into place. 

“Demon Crawzly,” said Beelzebub after what was almost certainly a deliberately overlong silence. “I hope I kept thee waiting.”

“You did,” he said, straightening back up. 

“Exzzellent. Where izz the Archangel now?”

That was quick. Not beating about the bush. “Don’t know. Someplace in the city, I think.”

“I do not tolerate inzzolenzze.”

“I’m not being insolent.”

To be fair, Crawly wasn’t used to interacting with his superiors these days. Writing back and forth to Dagon worked much better. Less chance to run off at the mouth. 

Beelzebub sneered. “If thou zzayest so. Show me the zzzity.”

“Of course, Lord Beelzebub.” He went to the door and opened it for zzem. “It’s called Itjtawy. Current capital of Egypt. Home to, er. Loads of government and stuff. The Pharaoh. Officials.”

Beelzebub walked through the doorway, cuffing the side of his head as zze passed. “Zztop rambling. I’m not zztupid.”

Crawly grunted and blinked reflexive tears from his eyes. Satan, that hurt. “Sssorry, Lord Beelzebub.”

That earned him a bite from one of Beelzebub’s flies. 

Gnats? Mosquitoes? Bugs, anyway. 

“No apologizzzing.”

Crawly followed zzem out into the street, rubbing his cheek while zze wasn’t looking. This was going to be unpleasant, at best. 

Hopefully, Uriel wouldn’t be around for too much longer. 


	210. 1918 BC - Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for referenced emotional abuse/gaslighting (Heaven).

_1918 BC. Heaven._

Aziraphale hurried down the hall to the meeting room, arms full of scrolls. The location had been changed at the last minute—again—and he was rather behind schedule. Or, perhaps the location hadn’t been changed. The Seraph* who was supervising him these days said it was the same as ever. He was quite sure it wasn’t, but then he wasn’t meant to question, so he’d resolved to just accept the current location. 

(* Now that Aziraphale was back in Heaven, he wasn’t quite important enough to report directly to an Archangel.)

He passed another Angel in the hall. They looked familiar. Perhaps they’d attended one of his lectures? They didn’t acknowledge him, though—just blinked a few score eyes and looked the other way.

As he turned the corner, a scroll fell from the top of his stack and skittered across the polished stone floor. Aziraphale huffed and attempted to pick it up, but dropped another two. 

He could feel the other Angel watching him. 

After a bit more wrangling of scrolls, he managed to straighten back up, face rather warmer than it ought to be. The other Angel was still watching him. He turned and scurried down the hall.

The strange thing was, Heaven didn’t feel the same as it used to. He’d like to have thought something had changed, but he had an unpleasant suspicion it was something to do with him. Before Eden, he’d been the Principality Aziraphale, soon-to-be Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Now he was Aziraphale, the Principality who spent two thousand years on Earth and kept bumbling about in corporeal, humanoid form. 

Finally, he arrived at the correct meeting room. He paused for a moment to collect himself, then pushed the door open with his shoulder.

A dozen or so other Angels in a variety of forms existed in loose groups, chattering at one another. They stopped when he came in. 

“Hello!” Aziraphale let the door close and hurried to the desk they’d provided for him, finally letting his scrolls drop. 

A few had dented. He’d have to smooth them out later.

One of the Angels made a questioning, bell-like noise.

He looked up. “Ah, yes. Let’s see. I’ll have to ask that we conduct class in humanoid forms. Having the correct vocal apparatus is quite important.”

A few had already been in humanoid forms, wings notwithstanding. They’d attended his little meetings before, if he remembered correctly. The rest popped into human forms, expressions a disconcerting blend of annoyed and completely blank. 

“Splendid.” He cleared his throat. “Now then, I see some newcomers. I’d like to ask that you, er, separate off. Not for long, so no need to worry.”

He pulled out a few scrolls he’d prepared and went over to the Angels he’d seen before. “Penoliel! How lovely to see you again. Tanaphon. Kavoniel. And… Basrael. I almost didn’t recognize you there.” 

Basrael had been attending Aziraphale’s little meetings fairly regularly. They seemed a sight more invested than most of the other Angels in Earthly operations, and had been experimenting with human dress. Today, they wore a rather large outfit made of furs, which hid most of them. 

Still, Angels and humans were rather different, and Basrael just watched him.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Well, then. I’ve got, er, these.” He handed each of them a scroll. “They’re scripted exchanges you can try reading with one another. To get a sense of conversation.”

“We understand,” said Penoliel.

“Jolly good.” Aziraphale smiled. “I’ll just nip on over to the newcomers, and I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

He went over to the new Angels before they could respond. “Hello!”

They turned to face him. Two still seemed expressionless.

“Now then. First thing’s first, open your mouths, and let me—” He bent to take a look. “You’ll be needing teeth. It’s slightly harder without. Yes, that’s right.”

Aziraphale straightened up again. “Now, then. I’m the Principality Aziraphale. I was assigned to Earth for two thousand years, so since all the unpleasantness at Babel, I’ve been asked to teach the Heavenly host human language.”

The other Angels didn’t react. He hadn’t realized how helpful it was to have people respond. 

“There are rather a lot of languages spoken on Earth. I myself speak Akkadian, Sumerian, Egyptian, and Hebrew. That’s a Canaanite language, which there are quite a few of, though they’re mutually intelligible. Oh, and the, er. The language we’re speaking right now.” He’d call it the Heavenly language if he didn’t happen to know it was also spoken in Hell. 

“I speak that as well. Obviously.” Aziraphale laughed nervously, then cleared his throat. This was not difficult. It was just… talking. He was good at talking! That was why he was up here. “Most of the humans who follow God’s word speak Hebrew, so that’s what I’ve been instructed to teach you.”

Another Angel’s form flickered, briefly showing a few more wheels and tentacles.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He was doing his duty. Never mind that, if the last twenty-odd years were any indication, none of these Angels would return when the lesson was over. “Let’s get started, shall we?”


	211. 1911 BC - Itjtawy, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence.

_1911 BC. Itjtawy, Egypt._

Crawly slithered around the corner of the alley, making sure his tail was hidden before turning around to peek out into the street. 

He’d been right in the middle of a temptation when he felt an Angelic presence getting closer. At first, he’d crossed his fingers and hoped it was Aziraphale. By the time he worked out that it definitely wasn’t, Uriel was much too close to get away with magic, so he’d made his excuses and transformed into a snake to find someplace to hide.

Uriel wasn’t quite in sight yet, but he could taste already the holy wrath on the air. She wasn’t happy about something. Even the humans could feel it—they were leaving the area, looking uncomfortable.

Crawly shrunk backward. He probably ought to hide better, really, but it had been long enough that he knew Uriel would find him if it was him she was after. 

The last door slammed, leaving the street empty. If that wasn’t foreboding, Crawly didn’t know what was.

A lone human appeared around the corner of a building, running. The poor blighter looked terrified. 

For good reason, too—Uriel emerged from behind the building, glowing with holy fire that was almost painful to look at, even from this distance.

“ **Human. Repent your sins.** ” Her voice echoed off the buildings. 

Oh, hang on. That wasn’t right. She wasn’t speaking Egyptian. That was his and Aziraphale’s language. 

Crawly shifted back to his human form and jogged out from the alley, waving. “Oi! They can’t understand that, y’know.”

Uriel rounded on him. “Crawly.” She glowed brighter, and that definitely stung. “You cannot presume to know—”

“Oh, shut up.” He stopped several meters from Uriel—had that much self-preservation at least. “It’s not right, giving them warnings they can’t understand. How’re they supposed to repent? That’s ridiculous.”

The human in question was still halfway-groveling, glancing between Uriel and Crawly, and looking fantastically confused.

“I do not take advice from _Demons_ ,” said Uriel. “I will deal with you later.” 

She turned to the human, and spoke in Egyptian this time. “ **Repent your sins.** ”

“My—what?”

“Very well. **You’ve made your decision. Prepare to be smote.** ” 

Uriel began glowing brighter and spread her wings, eyes closed and head thrown back to the sky.

Crawly’s skin prickled. This was. Not a good idea. 

He glanced from the human back to her. 

He wasn’t meant to make good choices, anyway.

Crawly made eye contact with the human and jerked his head to the side. 

The human blinked once.

He did it again. 

They got the message and got to their feet, then began running.

Uriel’s eyes snapped open and she pointed a finger at the human, but Crawly snapped his fingers and they disappeared. They wouldn’t be too far off. Maybe a city or two.

Uriel turned to glare at Crawly. “How dare you—”

He turned and ran for cover. 

Light flashed behind him, and he was airborne. 

That wasn’t good.

He shifted back into snake form, falling between a collection of clay jars rather than into them. He hissed as he landed, his spine flaring with pain in at least two places. 

Beelzebub would be livid if he got discorporated now and zze heard about it. Which zze would, if he got discorporated.

Uriel was still out there. He had to get… somewhere else. Anywhere else. Come on.

Couldn’t close his eyes, though—no eyelids.

Focus.

Crawly reappeared in his house, in human form, and collapsed to the ground. He’d warded the building against Angels, so he might be safe. Maybe. Except for the pounding in his skull and the way he felt vaguely singed all over.

Two teleportations had definitely been too much. 

Still. The human was all right. 

Fuck, had he done a good thing? 

Thwarted an Angel, sure, but…

His head hurt too much for worrying about that. Thwarted an Angel. An Archangel, even. 

Satan, he missed Aziraphale. The bloody Angel’d better turn up again, or Crawly would have _words_ with him when Armageddon rolled around. 


	212. 1896 BC - Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for emotional abuse (Heaven).

_1896 BC. Heaven_.

“Principality Aziraphale.” A calm, placid voice spoke from everywhere and nowhere at once, startling Aziraphale into smearing ink over the papyrus he’d been working on. “The Archangels Gabriel and Uriel would like to see you.”

He miracled the ink back off, then glanced around. “Oh. Where are they?”

“In the Earthly Arrivals area.”

“Quite right.” He shook his hand to dry the ink on it, then gathered up his scroll and put it away. He’d been provided with space to keep his teaching aids, which he was ever so grateful for. “I’ll be there in a jiffy.”

The voice didn’t respond.

He hurried out of the hall he’d been working in. It was part of the ‘Messiahs, Martyrs, and Miracles’ department, which wasn’t especially busy just yet. There were a few Angels around, of course, but Aziraphale hadn’t spoken to them much.*

(* The one time he’d tried, the Angel he spoke to went into a three-day tirade against the inefficiency of the miracle records. This included no fewer than fourteen remarks on the Archangels’ general disregard for any concerns they might raise, and countless references to an apparently anonymous Angel on Earth, who kept doing ‘unnecessary’ miracles. Aziraphale had attempted to defend this hapless Angel, until an increasing level of specificity forced him to acknowledge that the Angel in question was undeniably Aziraphale himself. At that point he excused himself in a hurry, citing ‘frightfully important language business, or some such thing.’)

He arrived at Earthly Arrivals a tad out of breath. It was strange, entering from the Heavenly side rather than the, well. Earthly Arrival side. 

Gabriel and Uriel watched him silently as he drew up to them, eyebrows raised. 

Aziraphale stopped and brushed off his robe, though it was of Heavenly design and thus did not get dirty. They’d taken his Earthly clothes a few months after he arrived.

“Aziraphale.” Gabriel looked him up and down, distaste writ across his face. “What are you… doing?”

He looked down at himself, then back up at Gabriel. He’d been summoned, hadn’t he? And he knew attendance at his little language lessons had been low, but he’d done all he could considering it was officially a low-priority activity. 

“I think it’s just breathing,” said Uriel. “It’s called ‘panting,’ or ‘hyperventilating.’ Humans do it when they’re under stress.”

Gabriel made a face, then looked back at Aziraphale. “Aziraphale. Come on. It’s been forty years.”

He forced himself to stop breathing. “I’m sorry.” He looked at the floor. “Force of habit, I’m afraid.”

Gabriel gave a long-suffering sigh. “Well, it’s a good thing you won’t be up here much longer.”

Cold fear seized him, and his gaze snapped back to Gabriel. “I— not— surely I haven’t… that is to say, surely not?”

He couldn’t Fall. He’d worked so hard. Granted, he’d been trying not to question. How did they know? He’d been trying not to breathe, but now the prospect seemed impossible. He couldn’t breathe. What had he done?

Gabriel laughed and pulled him out of his spiralling thoughts. “Don’t be ridiculous, Aziraphale. You’re not Falling.”

“Not that far, anyway,” said Uriel. 

Gabriel snorted. “Good one. Anyway, no. You’re just going back down to Earth.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale blinked once, then managed a smile. “That’s wonderful! I’m so pleased to—er, that is… I’ll miss Heaven, of course, but wherever you think best. I’ll go. Serve the, er. Serve the Plan.” He paused. “What about Uriel?”

Gabriel and Uriel exchanged a glance.

“The Archangels decided you’re better suited to the post. Considering.” Gabriel looked Aziraphale pointedly up and down, before meeting his eyes again with a broad smile. “It’s nothing _personal_ , so don’t worry about it.”

“Of course not.” The words felt vaguely bitter, though perhaps that was the residual panic from before. “When will I be going back? Just, since I’ll be needing to gather my things. Finish business.” He paused. “Oh, dear—and what about the lessons?”

Gabriel blinked. “Lessons. Of course. Well, what about your, uh. That choir Angel. What’s their name. Bastael? Bariel?”

“Basrael,” said Aziraphale quickly. “And yes, they ought to do nicely.” Basrael was quite fluent these days, in Akkadian and Egyptian as well as Hebrew. They’d been working on Sumerian—Heaven’s last priority—but it would seem that would have to stop. 

“Great.” Gabriel turned to Uriel. “How long did you need?”

“A few years,” she said calmly. “I’d like to give the Demons something to remember me by.”

Aziraphale felt his eyes widen, then schooled his expression into something neutral. Really, Crawly was none of his concern, and he ought to remember it. Although— “Demons, plural?”

Uriel looked back at him, and he smothered a shiver. Her dark eyes, though indistinguishable from a human’s, were emotionless and cold. “Yes. A snake Demon and an insectoid.”

An insectoid? How odd. “I see. Well. Good luck.” 

There was an awkward silence. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind my asking. I mean, if it’s not too forward of me. Erm. What exactly… that is, what are you going to do to them? The Demons.”

“Smite them, of course.”

“Ah. Indubitably.” He cleared his throat again. “Good luck.”

A few years, then back to Earth. He really ought to be less pleased at the prospect than he was. 


	213. 1885 BC - Itjtawy, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for very minor violence.

_1885 BC. Itjtawy, Egypt._

Crawly skulked around the side of the building hiding the entrance to Hell. They were a bit early, so they were avoiding going in until they had to. If they’d learned anything in the past forty-odd years, it was to avoid being cooped up in a room with Beelzebub if at all possible. 

Still, at least they wouldn’t have to worry about that soon, if all went as planned. The Archangel had disappeared around three years ago, replaced by Aziraphale’s much more familiar presence. Beelzebub hung around for a bit to make sure the Archangel wouldn’t be back, but finally announced zzer intention to leave recently. 

Crawly’d received the message in the form of telepathic knowledge. Beyond the general unpleasantness of Hellish telepathy, the message had caused them to freeze at a critical moment of a temptation. Crawly had every intention of listing it in their report whenever they got round to that, and spent the latter part of the morning debating the best way to phrase ‘three months of work screwed up by Lord Beelzebub.’

“Crawzly,” Beelzebub said, swinging around the side of the building. Zze’d adapted to life on Earth like a dog to water—that is to say, grudgingly but effectively—and now sported a decent approximation of Egyptian fashions. “Why art thou outzzide?”

“I just got here,” they said casually. “All set, then? Ready for Hell?”

Zze rolled zzer eyes. “I am Hell’s Prinzze, Crawzly. Dost thou conzzider thy words before zzpeaking?”

“Sometimes.” Crawly snapped his fingers, opening the door to the entrance to Hell, then followed zzem in.

With the door shut, Beelzebub rounded on them, standing on the balls of zzer feet to scowl in their face. “Thou art inzzufferable, Crawzly. If thou weren’t the only Demon willing to zztay on Earth, I would feed thee to the Hellhoundzz.”

Crawly swallowed and resisted the urge to apologize. They might have been half a head taller than zzem, but zze reeked of Demonic power. 

Beelzebub apparently decided that was enough intimidation, because zze backed away, still scowling. Zze straightened zzer clothes. “And if I hear thou hazzt gotten in trouble with the new Angel…”

“I think I can handle a Principality. I could’ve handled an Archangel, too, if you’d—”

“The Archangel zzmote thee,” buzzed Beelzebub. “Twizze.”

Crawly grimaced. “I had it handled.” They hadn’t even been smote! Not properly, anyway. They weren’t even discorporated, either time. 

A selection of insects manifested and nipped them in rapid succession. They tried to hide their winces, but failed, judging by Beelzebub’s pleased expression. 

Crawly recovered, mostly. They’d have to shake it off when they got outside. 

Beelzebub was watching them expectantly.

What were they meant to do?

Oh, yeah.

They swept a bow. Another insect bit them anyway.

Beelzebub opened the door and walked slowly down the stairs. “Clozze the door,” zze called up behind zzem. 

Crawly stood up again and shut the door, then raced out of the building and into the street. They shuddered, scratching their neck. The bites would be unpleasant for a few days. 

Still. It was afternoon, and they were finally alone in the city again. Or, not alone. Aziraphale was still around. Aziraphale should probably count as someone. 

Somehow, he didn’t. 


	214. 1884 BC - Itjtawy, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for accidental misgendering and references to both prostitution and sexism.

_1884 BC. Itjtawy, Egypt._

Aziraphale took a cup of wine from a man selling the stuff and turned to look out over the gathered humans. It wasn’t a large crowd—twenty or thirty of them, perhaps, spread out across the street. A neighborhood party, so far as he could tell. He’d been invited by a woman he’d been guiding for the past month or two.

Though he’d only been back on Earth for three years, it was surprisingly easy to get back into the motions. Of course, having the other Demon around had put a bit of a damper on things. He’d nearly run afoul of them, twice, which had been most unpleasant. 

They seemed to have gone, though, which meant it was just him and Crawly again. They hadn’t spoken yet. A part of him thought he ought to go on avoiding him. Another part—the part that had him wandering through the crowd now—had decided to pay all of that no mind.

Because Crawly was here somewhere. Aziraphale had realized that when he turned onto the street. Likely up to something nefarious. Which, of course, meant that he was honour-bound to stop them. 

He paused toward the centre of the gathering and sipped his wine, turning slowly. Ah, there they were. Talking to a middle-aged human. 

What exactly were they wearing? It looked like a veil. 

Aziraphale strode up to them and stood at Crawly’s shoulder, smiling politely. The human looked terribly confused. 

Crawly trailed off. “Aziraphale,” they said. 

“Good afternoon.” He looked at the human. “I suggest you don’t pay any mind to whatever this person might have been saying.”

Crawly’s jaw dropped, and they looked back and forth between Aziraphale and the human. 

Goodness. “You needn’t look so shocked. I couldn’t very well let you carry on.”

“Do you know this person?” The human asked, looking at Crawly.

They managed to close their mouth again before speaking. “Ehh. Sort of. We’re—”

“Enemies,” interjected Aziraphale. “We’re enemies. Why don’t you go thank the host? She’s been ever so gracious, don’t you agree.”

The human blinked, then turned slowly away and walked off.

Crawly rounded on Aziraphale. “What the Heaven was that? I was in the middle of a temptation!”

“Heaven,” said Aziraphale in a tone that would have been smug if he weren’t an Angel. “I thwarted you, didn’t I?”

Crawly made a series of spluttering noises, then sighed. “Yeah, okay. Point to you, I guess.”

“How gracious of you to admit defeat.”

“I’m not _gracious_.” Crawly crossed their arms. “What are you doing here, anyway? Is that wine?”

“Thwarting you, obviously.” Aziraphale turned to face away from them more, taking a sip of wine. “And yes, it is.”

Crawly grunted.

“Would you like some?”

“I don’t drink on the job.”

Aziraphale tutted. “I hope you don’t think you’ll be ‘working’ more while I’m here.”

They were silent for a moment. “I guess not.”

“Wine, then?”

“No, thanks.”

He shrugged and took another sip of his own. “Is it working?”

“What working?”

“The, er.” He gestured to his eye-area. “The veil.”

“Oh. Yeah, it’s working. Well enough. Have to present masculine though, or the humans think I’m a prostitute.”

“Isn’t that the sort of thing you’re meant to encourage?”

“Ehh… generally, yeah. I don’t see what’s so bad about it, long as everyone’s happy, honestly.” They paused. “I don’t get involved, though. Not my scene.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale took another sip of wine. “I must say, masculine presentation is rather easier these days.”

Crawly groaned. “Tell me about it. I half want to send a report on it, but I’m not sure they’re done going downhill yet.”

“Oh dear. I do hope they are.”

“Well, you would.” 

“Don’t pretend you don’t.”

Crawly hissed. “Shut up. It’s a bloody inconvenience, is what it is. I don’t feel _sorry_ for them.”

“Of course not.” He paused. “It is quite inconvenient. I used to present much more neutrally, you know.”

“I remember,” said Crawly. “I have been here the whole time.”

“Quite right.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Well. I suppose I ought to go.”

“Yeah.” Crawly almost sounded disappointed. 

Never mind that, though. Not his business.

He turned to look at them. “Have a lovely evening. And no tempting. I mean it, too. If I hear one peep of a scandal after this, I’ll come find you myself.”

Crawly’s mouth twisted into a smirk. It was quite difficult, not seeing their eyes. “Wouldn’t want to be smote.”

“I was rather hoping that was off the table,” said Aziraphale quietly. 

“’Course. Got plenty of that from your pal Uriel.”

Aziraphale grimaced. “I imagine you rather did.”

“See you around, then, Aziraphale.” 

He gave a quick nod, then hurried off. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no evidence that ancient Egyptians held block parties, but here we are.


	215. 1870 BC - Itjtawy, Egypt

_1870 BC. Itjtawy, Egypt._

Crawly paced. It wasn’t a very large pace. Being in an alley limited how much pacing they could do. 

Really, they should just go inside.

It wasn’t that big a deal.

They just had to say, ‘hi, I want to hire a scribe.’

That was it. But no, they were pacing. 

Fantastic Demon, they were.

Crawly stopped and leaned their forehead against the wall. They ought to just go home. This was ridiculous. They were being ridiculous. 

Still. They’d come all this way. Wouldn’t want to waste the trip.

They exhaled sharply and left the alley before they could second-guess* themself. They walked into the receptionist area and leaned on the desk. “Hi. I want to hire a scribe.”

(* Or third-guess. Or, more accurately, twenty-fourth guess.)

The human on duty frowned. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to wait, sir. All our scribes are busy or taking—”

A door opened at the side of the room and Aziraphale poked his head out. “Crawly? What exactly are you doing here?”

This was a bad idea. This was definitely a bad idea. The human was staring at them. Bless it. 

“Don’t worry, dear, I’ll take care of this,” Aziraphale said to the human. “Off you pop.”

The human looked confused, but Aziraphale beckoned and ushered them into the door he’d just come out of. Then he shut the door and turned to Crawly. “What exactly, pray tell, do you think you are doing here?”

“Er… hiring a scribe.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?”

“It’s the truth.” Crawly looked at the floor. “Look, I was being ridiculous. I’ll just go.”

“Absolutely not.” Aziraphale crossed his arms. “I don’t believe you, and you are not leaving this building until you’ve told me why you are here.”

Crawly swallowed. They really hadn’t had an ulterior motive. Well, not one they’d say out loud, anyway. Or even think about to themself. They probably should’ve said something to that effect, but didn’t. “What if I don’t?”

Aziraphale huffed. “I really doubt you need to be reminded.”

“Right,” said Crawly. “Right.”

He stared at them expectantly. “I am waiting, Crawly.”

“’S nothing. Honestly.”

Aziraphale just watched them. 

The veil was quite convenient, come to think of it. They could stare at the ground or the wall without it seeming impolite. Sure, it made everything a little harder to see, but hey. 

They had to say something.

“Where’d you go?”

Aziraphale frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Y’know. When the Archangel was here. You disappeared, didn’t you?”

“I was recalled to Heaven. Smoothing over some linguistic difficulties.”

“Right.” That almost made sense. “From Babel, was it?”

“Of course.”

“Messy. That.”

“We have discussed it before, Crawly.” Aziraphale huffed. “I don’t suppose you’re prepared to be honest about why you’re here yet? I do have work to do.”

Crawly hissed and scrubbed their face with two hands, then flipped their veil back and looked at him. “Look. Aziraphale. I was trying to hire a scribe. I know it was ridiculous. You work here, and all. But honestly. That’s it.”

Aziraphale looked mildly taken aback. “I see. Well, if you’re sure.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” said Crawly, then felt their eyes widen. Where had that come from? Sorry excuse for a Demon they were. 

Aziraphale was still watching them. Fuck.

They put their veil back over their eyes. “Sorry,” they said. “Y’know what, I’ll just… go, yeah?” They passed him, not meeting his eyes, heading for the door. “Catch you later. Ciao.”

They left the building and ran out the door, then miracled themself home. 

Not thinking about that, then. Nope. No thanks. 

Fuck. 


	216. 1858 BC - Itjtawy, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to adultery.

_1858 BC. Itjtawy, Egypt._

Aziraphale waited outside an establishment selling alcohol, watching the door as subtly as he could. Crawly was inside, no doubt convincing poor, unsuspecting humans to get up to all manner of unpleasantness. With no more specific assignments, Aziraphale had decided to spend the evening thwarting them. 

The door swung open and a human exited the building, walking with purpose. 

Aziraphale waved. “Excuse me!” He hurried after them. “Excuse me, but I couldn’t help but notice—you appear a mite distressed. I wondered if there was anything—anything at all!—that I might do to assist.”

The human turned and snarled at him. “What do you know of my life?”

Aziraphale’s hand flew to his chest. “I was only offering my help. I’m terribly sorry if I’ve offended you.”

The human sighed, then raked a hand through their dark curls as they shook their head. “No, no, I’m sorry. I just… I’ve just worked myself up.”

“Humans all have their faults.” Aziraphale smiled sympathetically. “Now, is there anything I can do for you? Some water, perhaps?”

“Water sounds lovely, thanks. I’m bound to have a hangover soon if I don’t.”

“We wouldn’t want that.” Aziraphale pulled a waterskin and cup from somewhere behind him, poured the water out, and passed it to the human. They seemed too preoccupied to notice the inexplicable appearance of water. “Now, then. What seems to be troubling you, dear?”

The human sighed. “It’s just… well, it sounds silly, but I’ve just been a mess lately. My brother’s getting married, and I don’t like his fiancé.”

Aziraphale tutted. “What an uncomfortable situation. Whyever not?”

“Well, actually, it’s not that I don’t like him. The fiancé. I… well, I like him too much.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale straightened up a bit. This could be a difficult temptation to reverse. Humans could be quite impulsive when it came to such matters as this seemed to be. “Is he interested in you?”

“Not anymore. I screwed it up last year, and my brother swooped in and took him.” The human sounded terribly distraught, poor thing.

Well. Best handle this delicately. “You love your brother?”

“Very much.”

“Hmm. What was it you were going to do, just now?” 

The human looked down. “I was thinking of asking to elope.”

“Goodness. That seems a bit rash. Whatever brought it on?”

“It had crossed my mind. Person inside thought it was a good idea.”

Aziraphale allowed himself a small smile. Crawly had indeed been at work here. “Do you think you’ll do it?”

“I don’t know. I was going to, but…” They paused. “I love him. I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I?”

“I don’t know about that.” Aziraphale held his hand out and collected the cup and waterskin. “Why not think it over a bit more? And certainly don’t do anything so important while you’re drunk, I think.”

They chuckled. “I suppose that’s smart. Thank you.”

“Not a problem.” Aziraphale patted them on the shoulder. “Do what you think is best.”

“I will.” The human waved. “Have a good evening!”

“Likewise.”

Aziraphale watched as they ran off, then turned to see Crawly leaning against a nearby fence. They raised a hand in greeting, then pushed themself off the fence and walked toward him.

“Thwarted me again, have you?”

“Of course.” Aziraphale looked in a different direction. “Elopement? Is that all?”

“Jealousy. Infidelity. Mess like that, someone’s bound to get hurt. I just have to have had a hand in it.” They were meandering around him now.

“I suppose you think you’re clever, ruining peoples’ lives like that.”

Crawly stopped short. “I didn’t ruin anyone’s life, Aziraphale. It was his idea, after all.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “Well. I think I’d best be getting on.” 

“Suit yourself,” said Crawly airily, then adjusted their veil. “I guess I’ll see you around, then?”

“You can count on it.” Aziraphale turned to walk away, then stopped. “That is, count on my thwarting you.”

There was a strangely long pause before Crawly spoke again. “I’d expect nothing less.”


	217. 1845 BC - Itjtawy, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for alcohol as a coping mechanism.

_1845 BC. Itjtawy, Egypt._

Crawly leaned against the wall in their house, a half-full cup of wine sitting on the floor a few feet away from them. They’d just started up their reports on the whole Uriel-and-Beelzebub debacle, which promised to be difficult considering Beelzebub would be able to corroborate or deny anything they said. 

“’S not like it’s my fault there’s less to report,” said Crawly in the general direction of the wine. “Not properly. Was that bloody Angel. Uriel, ’course. Aziraphale’s… well, he’s Aziraphale. Isn’t he.”

They slid a little farther toward the ground. “Shouldn’t talk ’bout him like that, eh? Demon. Probably bad for me. Liking an Angel. Well, I don’t like him, so there.” 

They tilted sideways until they were halfway laying down, their arm stretching out to grab the cup of wine, then took a drink. They’d actually got decent stuff, this time around. “I don’t. He’s all uppity, y’know. Bastard. But he’s… he’s different. Somehow. Not like the other Angelsss.” 

Or not the ones Crawly’d met recently, anway. Recently meaning, after… well. 

“Cos Uriel. Right. Uriel’s all, ‘smite, and the wrath of God, and that.’ Same with all the others. Won’t listen to me. Demon. But Aziraphale… we’ve got a. A. An understanding. He listened to me. Doesn’t try to smite me. Or even disco—discuss— un-body me.”

Bloody low standard, but still. 

“And the other Angels are all well and good. Literally, good.” They laughed into the empty room, then took another swig of wine. “But he’s. Well, not quite an Angel-Angel, is he. Not like that. Not anymore, if he ever was. Guess that’s my bad influence.”

They paused. “I don’t want to tempt him, though. He’d make a rotten Demon. ’S just. It’s been a while. He’s more like… an angel. Proper one. What they’re meant to be. Not an Angel, all smitey and... all. He’s my friend angel.”

Crawly frowned. Wasn’t meant to say that. That was sentimental, probably. Ought to sober up. 

They forced themself into a sitting position and closed their eyes, then concentrated.

The mostly-empty bottle of wine on the table righted itself.

Crawly opened their eyes, then made a squeaking noise. “Shit.” 

Friend angel. 

They couldn’t be friends. Could they?

No, they bloody well couldn’t. Aziraphale was an Angel. 

But—but that was just it, wasn’t it? They talked to him. He talked to them! And they’d started… trying to talk to him. Like that time when they got it into their head to hire him as a scribe. 

What a bloody terrible decision that was.

That’s what friends did, though, wasn’t it? Talked to each other?

Well, that was the end of that. Nothing to be done. They’d have to go someplace else. Finish their report, then check out Mesopotamia again, see how people there were getting on. 

Just… somewhere with no Aziraphale. 

Couldn’t become friends with him if they didn’t see him. Right? Humans did that. If they didn’t see someone for a bit, they’d stop being so friendly.* And Crawly could stay away for a lot longer than the average human could. 

(* A slightly deeper layer of Crawly’s mind cycled through a number of phrases before landing on ‘they’d stop being so friendly,’ including ‘they’d grow apart,’ ‘they’d stop being so close,’ and ‘their feelings would fade,’ all of which seemed even worse than the phrasing Crawly ultimately chose.)

Right. They could do that. Just spend a few decades away, maybe a century or two, and they’d be able to ignore it. 

Or at least get themself under control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to take some time off posting until this coming Monday, when I'll resume normal posting. In order to stay on schedule, I'm going to post eight chapters for the intervening days tonight. I may respond to comments in the meantime, but if I don't, I will do so when I return.


	218. 1844 BC - Itjtawy, Egypt

_1844 BC. Itjtawy, Egypt._

Aziraphale glanced furtively up and down the street. It was deserted at the moment, of course. He wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t. Still, it couldn’t hurt to be careful, could it?

He gathered himself up and rapped twice on the door of Crawly’s house, then stepped back and far enough to the side that he hopefully would appear to be loitering in case anyone happened by. 

There wasn’t any sign of movement from inside, but that didn’t mean anything. Snakes didn’t make much noise, after all. He’d just have to wait. 

Aziraphale turned slightly away from the door and began examining the side of the neighbouring house. He’d grown increasingly disconcerted the past few weeks, since Crawly fell silent. At first, of course, it was a welcome respite from the trials of having his Adversary in the city. Recently, though, he’d grown… not _worried_ , per se, but uneasy.

After all, Crawly was terribly wily. They could be planning something positively monstrous. If that was the case, then Aziraphale was practically required to nip it in the bud. 

Which was why he was here. He knew where Crawly lived, of course. Shortly after his return to Earth, he’d taken care to stake it out in case of emergency. 

There was still no movement from inside the house.

Aziraphale huffed. Perhaps the fiend was out setting up whatever it was they were planning. Well, then. If Crawly didn’t appear and let him in soon, he’d simply be forced to let himself in. 

He checked the street again, then went up to the door, knocked, and stood back. 

A chilly breeze blew down the street, and Aziraphale conjured up a shawl. “Really, Crawly,” he said. “Stop being childish and let me in.”

A rooster crowed a few streets over.

Perhaps Crawly really wasn’t home. Well, they would just have to accept the consequences, wouldn’t they. 

Aziraphale waved a hand to open the door, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him. 

Inside was dark, but that wasn’t much of a surprise—Crawly could see in the dark, after all. Aziraphale, however, couldn’t, so he snapped his fingers to light the room, celestial brilliance illuminating the space.

It was quite empty. There was a table pushed against one wall, and a few other furnishings, but nothing whatsoever that seemed personal. And the air smelled of dust. 

Had Crawly gone?

Aziraphale would have thought they would tell him. They’d told one another those things in the past. Though Crawly was well within their rights not to.

Although—that was odd. There was a clay tablet on the table. 

He walked over and picked it up with one hand, blowing the dust from its surface. It was written in an older dialect of Sumerian—the one he and Crawly learned directly after Babel. 

“ _Aziraphale,_   
“ _Something came up on short notice. I’ll be out of town for a while. Couple decades, maybe centuries. Point is it’s only moderate evil, so no need to follow and thwart._  
“ _Bad luck,_  
“ _Crawly._ ”

Aziraphale lowered the tablet, frowning. What an odd thing to do. He probably ought to be angry with them for assuming he’d go looking. The trouble was, he _had_ gone looking. 

Best not think about that. 

Heaven would be pleased—he had the run of the Egyptian capital, now. If he were feeling optimistic when he wrote his report, he could say he’d run Crawly out of the city. Though perhaps that was stretching the truth. Oh, well—he could fine-tune the phrasing at a later date. For now, he ought to leave the Demon’s lair. 

He ran a finger over Crawly’s name, smoothing the letters into oblivion, then tucked it into his bag. 


	219. 1827 BC - Babylon, Mesopotamia

_1827 BC. Babylon, Mesopotamia_.

“There’s not enough room for another temple,” Shamash-ili said. “We’d have to move the outer wall.”

Crawly resisted the urge to smirk. With the wall built even higher recently, moving it would be virtually impossible. Not to mention impractical. And it would open them up to attack from Elam, which was not ideal, to say the least.

King Hammurabi seemed to think something similar, judging by the expression in his face. “I don’t want to give up the temple. The architectural plans are stunning.”

“We could move the market stables outside the city,” another advisor said. 

Shamash-ili rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. We can’t ask the farmers to drive the livestock in and out of the city every market day. Besides, it would mean opening the gates for hours every week.”

The advisor looked chastened.

“What about taking down the old tower?” King Hammurabi asked. 

Crawly grimaced. That had been one of the strangest things about coming back to Babel—not many people remembered what the tower was for. It had been mostly demolished, too, over the last few centuries, as the stone was repurposed for other things. Still, a few layers at the base remained. 

“It might be worth looking into,” said Shamash-ili. 

“Hang on.” Crawly sat forward toward the table. “There’s people living in the tower.”

Shamash-ili shrugged. “It’s just slums. Unless you have a better idea.”

Well, way to put them on the spot. This is what they got for speaking up. “What about the roads?” They managed.

“What about them?” King Hammurabi asked.

“The ones around that spot are pretty wide, right?” Crawly leaned over the city plans on the table and pointed as they spoke. “Look, if you just cut into it, you can have enough room for the base of the temple. Stables and tower undamaged.”

Shamash-ili frowned. “Wouldn’t that disrupt traffic?”

Crawly blinked once at the map, then shook their head. “No—have you seen that road? It’s barely ever backed up.”

Of course, that was because the road was wide enough to avoid that sort of thing. Even if the temple only took up half of it, it would create a nasty bottleneck. But hey, that would get people out of sorts, wouldn’t it? Ripe for tempting.

King Hammurabi nodded decisively. “If there are no more objections or ideas, we will cut into the road.” He raised his eyebrows at the assembled advisors.

No one spoke up.

“Good. Next, we have an invitation from the court in Nippar to discuss.”

Crawly grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hammurabi actually reigned from 1792 BC - 1750 BC according to the Mesopotamian chronology I’m using, but I bumped him up a few decades in order to bring in another historical character who happened around the same time.


	220. 1820 BC - Itjtawy, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for emotional abuse/gaslighting (Heaven) and reference to slavery.

_1820 BC. Itjtawy, Egypt._

Aziraphale accepted a cup of wine and went to sit delicately on a couch nearby. The human whom he was guiding, a court official named Kamer, sat opposite, nursing his own wine. 

“Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” Aziraphale said. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you’ve agreed to consider the proposal.”

“It wouldn’t make me popular with the rest of the court.” Kamer took a sip of his wine, then set it aside. “But I’m willing to hear you out.”

“Yes, thank you.” He cleared his throat. “Well, the long and the short of it is, the Israelites are suffering terribly. Especially with Amemem—that is, the Pharaoh building a second pyramid. It has been one hundred and fifty years.”

Kamer grimaced. “Amenemhat wouldn’t like construction on his pyramid to be stopped.”

This was the difficult bit. Aziraphale wasn’t allowed to work for them to be freed—more’s the pity, but that was the Plan—but really, things couldn’t be allowed to go on as they had been. He passed through the slaves’ quarters when he walked to his house after his scribal work, and though the poor humans seemed to be getting along as well as could be expected, they certainly weren’t anywhere near happy.

“I’m not suggesting you free them,” Aziraphale said as quickly as he could. “Just that the expectations be… loosened slightly. Shorter hours. Fewer days.”

Kamer sighed. “I don’t know. I might—”

A holy wind whipped through the room, and another Angel appeared. 

Aziraphale dropped his cup of wine and it shattered on the floor.

“Aziraphale,” said a familiar voice in the language of Heaven and Hell. “You are—what’s this?”

He blinked once, then forced his body to relax. “Gabriel. What a pleasant surprise.”

“I thought it would be!” Gabriel gestured to Kamer with one wing. “What is that?”

“A human. He’s rather disturbed, I’m afraid. Might you, er. Dim down a bit?”

Gabriel chuckled. “I knew I was forgetting something.” Their glow dimmed.

“And the wings,” said Aziraphale with Angelic patience.

Gabriel’s wings disappeared.

“Who—who is that?” Kamer asked tremulously.

“My… well, my boss, I suppose.”

“What are you saying, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale relayed the conversation to them. 

Gabriel nodded. “Boss. I like that. You missed your review last year.”

Oh dear. Aziraphale hadn’t realized he was expected in person, now that so many Angels could read and write. “I thought I was to turn in written reports now?”

“Of course not. I’d remember if you were.”

“Quite right. I don’t suppose you could leave now? Only, I was in the middle of a rather important bit of divine guidance, and I’m afraid you’ve spooked him.”

Gabriel’s expression went stony. “‘Spooked,’ Aziraphale? I didn’t ‘spook’ him, you failed to report last year.”

Aziraphale’s stomach clenched uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, Gabriel.”

“Sorry doesn’t bring your report, Aziraphale.”

“Of course.” He attempted to smile, but found he couldn’t quite look at Gabriel. “I’ll just finish things up here, and—”

“I think I’ve waited long enough, sunshine.”

“Quite right. Of course. Just a tick.” He swallowed hard, then turned toward Kamer, though he couldn’t make eye contact with him either. “I have to go now,” he said in Egyptian. “I hope you think things over, and, er. Forget all about this incident, if you’d be so kind.”

“Aziraphale, I am waiting. You don’t have to fraternize with humans.”

He got to unsteady feet, worrying the folds of his clothing with one hand. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “Might we depart from outside? So as not to traumatize him further by disappearing.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Fine. If you think it’s necessary.”

Aziraphale gulped, then led the way to a more discreet corner of Kamer’s house. 


	221. 1807 BC - Babylon, Mesopotamia

_1807 BC. Babylon, Mesopotamia._

Crawly knocked at the entrance to the royal sculptor’s workshop. “Hey. Can I come in?”

The sound of chiseling stopped and the sculptor looked up. “Oh. Lord Crawly! What an unexpected pleasure.”

“Thought I’d come see how the stele was shaping up.” They stepped into the workshop, holding the draping folds of their robes away from the dusty sheets with one forearm. 

“It’s slow going,” said the sculptor. Crawly ought to learn her name. “But I guess that’s what happens when one has to carve 282 laws into stone.”

Crawly made a quiet noise of sympathy. They wouldn’t have liked to do something that tedious when they were sculpting. Not at all. Still, the stele was shaping up decently, the dark grey stone in the rough shape of a finger. “How long d’you reckon it’ll take?”

“Years,” the sculptor said with no hint of sarcasm. “Especially considering how King Hammurabi keeps requesting other things in between.”

“Mmm. ’S why I stayed freelance.”

“Sir?”

“Or, my family. Had some… uncles. Who did sculpting.”

“Ah.” She picked up a cloth from the worktable beside her and began cleaning her chisel. “Did you ever consider it?”

Crawly laughed. “A bit. My family wanted me to go into statecraft, though. And I got rid of most of the statues I made, anyway.”

Whether ‘got rid of’ meant selling them or miracling them into burials out of embarrassment was irrelevant. 

Actually, come to think of it, that statue of Aziraphale they made way back in the day made a lot more sense now. Considering Crawly’s… recent realizations. 

“Did you have a hand in these, Lord Crawly?”

Their gaze snapped back to the sculptor, who was bent over the lower part of the stele now, examining her work closely. They shrugged. “Sort of. I’ve been around while they’re being discussed.”

Which was true. A lot of it seemed a bit of an overreaction, but it would probably help with a lot of the more violent vigilante justice they had in Babylon. And they would probably be reporting it to Hell. Proper violence for once. Dagon would be pleased. 

“Must be exciting.” The sculptor leaned back and reached for a new chisel. “I have to get back to the actual work now. Might be kind of loud.”

“Right.” Crawly gave her a mock salute. “Cheers. Hope it works out.”

“Thanks,” she said, then turned back to work. 


	222. 1802 BC - Itjtawy, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to both adultery and murder.

_1802 BC. Itjtawy, Egypt_.

Aziraphale finished the last letter of the scroll he was writing with a flourish and looked up at his client with a smile. “If that’s all, I believe you can pay Aat?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He passed the scroll to his client and stood slowly from his position on the floor to lead them into the other room. Aat spotted him and motioned to a different human. He greeted them, then beckoned for them to follow him. 

He settled back into his customary position on the floor and selected a fresh scroll. “Now, then. My name is Aziraphale. How might I be of assistance?”

“Ahtep. I need to write a letter to my sister in law,” they said. “She lives in Babylonia.”

“In Babylon?” That was what they called Babel nowadays, wasn’t it?

Ahtep shook her head. “No. Babylonia is the nation under Babylon. My sister lives in Larsa.”

Oh, dear. Sumer seemed to just keep being conquered these days. How unpleasant. “I see. What language?”

“Akkadian, please.”

“Very well.” He dipped his stylus in ink, carefully removed the excess, and moved to hold it poised over the papyrus. “Whenever you’re ready, then.”

Ahtep nodded once, straightening up, then spoke. “Tell Ninsunu, Isiratuu and Ahtep send the following message.”

Aziraphale held up a finger while he wrote it down. “There we are.”

“This is sad news, and it is with heavy hearts that we hope this letter reaches you before your sentence has been carried out.” She paused again until he motioned for her to continue. “Isiratuu, your brother, has examined the king’s codes and believes there is hope. Take counsel, and level your own charges.”

“Just a moment, dear.” Aziraphale finished copying the first sentence and dipped his ink to begin the second. “This sounds terribly unfortunate.”

“It is,” Ahtep said. “Ninsunu has been falsely accused of adultery.”

“Goodness.” He finished the second sentence. “You may continue.”

“Firstly, you must reveal his own adultery. Bring witnesses to the house when you have said you will be out. This will begin a trial against him and against his mistress.”

He raised his eyebrows, but copied it.

“This will delay your execution. While it goes on, write to the man with whom you are accused, and bring him to the trial.”

Aziraphale raised a finger. “Just one moment.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Not as such. Only, is the penalty for adultery in Babylonia really execution?”

Ahtep nodded. “It’s part of King Hammurabi’s code. The couple are to be tied together and thrown into the river.”

Good lord. How lurid. “Is that really fair?”

“It’s better than the spurned husband exacting revenge as he pleases.”

Aziraphale grimaced. “I suppose.”

“Are you going to write the letter?”

“Oh. Yes, quite right.” He picked up the stylus again. “Continue, please.”


	223. 1788 BC - Babylon, Mesopotamia

_1788 BC. Babylon, Mesopotamia._

Crawly leaned against the base of the tower of Babel, arms crossed. They’d been having a bad streak of temptations lately, and thought they’d come blow off some steam here. This was their favourite spot in the city—not because of the tower, but because it was the best place to watch the humans. 

The temple was completed decades ago now, and the road quickly became notorious for how rotten it was to travel. Trouble was, it was virtually inescapable for anyone going to worship or going between the market stables and market. Which meant it was a tightly packed, narrow road full of angry humans and livestock. 

It was a shame the humans hadn’t domesticated unicorns yet, or Crawly would tempt some over and see how people liked that. Then again, if they were domesticated, they might not be so ornery. The horns would still cause problems, wouldn’t they? 

Come to think of it, they hadn’t actually seen any unicorns in ages. 

Even without unicorns, the road was excellent. Just right now, Crawly could see three distinct groups of humans arguing over a collision. That was in addition to the regular curses and frustrated shouts that punctuated the air here. And the sporadic pickpocketing. 

They’d brought tablets once to take notes, and tallied up the numbers of each infraction. The current plan was to average that out and estimate the number of temptations that was. 

They’d been getting bored of Babylon lately, though. Wasn’t much tying them down since they got kicked out of court again. So they might just average how many in a year and check back in every now and again to see how it was going.

“Excuse me,” said a youthful voice from behind them. “Can I ask a favour?”

Crawly turned to see young-ish human dressed in masculine clothing, standing at the base of the stairs to the tower. They shrugged. “Depends what it is.”

“It’s just that I’m new to Babylon,” the human said. “And I was wondering if you knew how to get to the market.”

“Through there.” Crawly jerked a thumb toward the traffic jam that was the road to the market, and smirked.

The human paled. “Is there another way?”

On one hand, they could send the human through, keep an eye on them, and count it as a temptation. On the other hand, Crawly might be able to get a proper one in—if not this kid, maybe a human in the market.

They sighed. “Yeah. It’ll cost you, though.”

The human pulled out a pouch and handed them a piece of silver.

Crawly raised their eyebrows. Gullible. Impressively gullible, actually. And generous to boot. Might be worth more than an afternoon’s temptation. “Where are you from, then?”

“Ur. I’m Ea-nasir, by the way.”

“Crawly.”

“May the gods keep you in good health.”

They pocketed the silver. “Sure. Come on, then.”


	224. 1778 BC - Itjtawy, Egypt

_1778 BC. Itjtawy, Egypt_.

Aziraphale glanced out at the gathering of children, then back at Desher. “Must I?”

“This is why I hired you, Aserfel. They’re just boys. Not going to bite.”

Aziraphale had been forced to quit his last job over concerns about his age. It was understandable, to be sure—particularly when one considered his white hair. Still, he’d been quite content as he was. And now he was stuck teaching young humans how to write. 

“Aserfel,” Desher said impatiently. “If you don’t go out there now, I’ll have to reconsider your post.”

“Really, there’s no need for that. I’m going.” He exhaled sharply through his nose, then strode out to meet his fate.

Nearly a dozen small boys looked up at him, eyes wide. Two shifted guiltily. 

Aziraphale sighed. He ought to get himself back under control. After all, it wasn’t these childrens’ fault he’d had to switch careers. “Good morning,” he said with as much cheer as he could muster. “You all have your things? Stylus? Ink? Papyri?”

“We don’t use papyri,” said one of the boys toward the front. He was missing one of his teeth, and had the demeanor of a child who didn’t like being told what to do. 

“I suppose that’s for the best.” Papyrus was awfully expensive, after all. Still. Writing on clay wasn’t the best way to learn proper scribal technique. “Do you all know your hieroglyphs?”

The group began clamouring and pointing fingers.

Aziraphale sighed and closed his eyes tightly. The noise continued, so he opened them again. “Pipe down, boys.”

They didn’t.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. “ **Boys** ,” said Aziraphale in his very quietest Angelic proclamation voice. 

They went silent and turned to stare at him.

“How did you do that?” The gap-toothed one asked finally.

“Teachers have our secrets,” he said. “Now. What is your name?”

“Amenaa.”

“How do you do, Amenaa?”

Amenaa blinked, then apparently elected to ignore the greeting. “What’s your name?”

“Aserfel. Now, then. May I see your writing, please?”

“What should I write?”

“Whatever you like.”

Amenaa blinked again, then squinted at him suspiciously. “Whatever I want? Because the last time they said that, I got in trouble.”

“I would not say it if I didn’t mean it,” he said. “And the rest of you, too. I’d just like to see your penmanship, please.”

There was a general clattering as the students picked up their bits of clay and arranged themselves so they could all reach an ink palette. The shuffling involved some whispered bickering, but Aziraphale made sure to watch each such instance with a steely gaze until they noticed him watching and settled down. 

Aziraphale laced his fingers in his lap and watched the boys’ writing as best he could. Solidly half of them had acceptable form, which was better than he’d expected considering the state of the new scribes at his previous post. Though the physical dynamics of clay were quite different from those of a scroll…

“Aserfel, I’m done.”

He looked down to see one of the boys holding out a tablet. “Ah, excellent.” He took it. “And what is your name?”

“Nenek-su.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Pleased to meet you, Nenek-su.” He looked down at the tablet, and frowned. “Now, would you mind telling me what you’ve written here?”

“It’s a poem my mother taught me.” Nenek-su recited it aloud.

“Ah. More nursery rhyme than poem, perhaps, but well-said.” He looked back at the tablet in his hand. “Why don’t you practice using the correct amount of ink?”

Nenek-su’s expression fell. “You don’t like it.”

“I didn’t say that. It’s quite a respected practice, writing down things one has heard. The fact of the matter is, though, that your poem would be better served if you spent slightly more time on penmanship.” Aziraphale held out the tablet. “Buck up, then. It’s harder than it looks.”

“Okay,” said Nenek-su, and took the tablet to sit down again.

As soon as he’d touched the ground, Amenaa was on his feet. “I’m done.”

“So soon? Very well.” He accepted the proffered tablet.

The script was much cleaner. Very clean, in fact. Nearly up to snuff for a professional. The words, however… “Amenaa,” said Aziraphale. “Did you think of this yourself?”

Amenaa didn’t meet his eyes. “Yes. Sorry, I’ll do another one.”

“Absolutely not.”

Amenaa’s eyes went wide. “Please don’t send me home. I’ll clean the—”

“I’m not angry, dear boy,” said Aziraphale gently.

“You’re not?”

“No. Quite the opposite.” He looked at the tablet again, sounding out the words under his breath once again before looking back at Amenaa. “This is quite fascinating,” he said, and handed it back. “Why don’t you write another?”


	225. 1768 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of violence.
> 
> This is the last of eight extra chapters which I posted Wednesday night (25 November 2020) in preparation for a four-day hiatus. The last chapter before this was 1858 BC. I'll be back with normal updates on Monday, 30 November 2020.

_1768 BC. Ur, Babylonia, Mesopotamia_.

Crawly paid the vendor selling hair oil and tucked their purchase into their sack. Then they joined the throngs of humans in the market, though they made sure to walk against the flow of the crowd. 

They’d finished their weekly temptation quota and were taking some time to enjoy it. Might pop down to the seaside later and dig some traps in the sand to capture unwitting humans. They could get something to drink and have a good laugh watching.

But first, they were shopping. They’d started shopping recently—just for the sake of it. Commerce was getting increasingly obnoxious, so it seemed like the wrong thing to do to support it. Badness knew they had enough money to throw around.

A scruffy kid ran by holding what looked like an embroidered coin purse and ducked into an alley, then turned around to watch the road. When they spotted Crawly, their eyes went wide, but Crawly flipped their veil back long enough to wink conspiratorially. The kid’s eyes went wide, and they slunk back into the alley. 

With their veil back in place, Crawly meandered over to a stall apparently selling copper ore and began browsing the selection. Seemed a strange thing to sell in market, but what did they know?

“Hello.” The vendor tilted their head, studying Crawly. “Do I know you?”

Crawly looked up. The vendor looked vaguely familiar, but the memory was at least a decade old, probably more. “I dunno. Do you?”

The vendor nodded slowly, then gasped and pointed a finger at them. “I’ve got it! You’re the guy who took me on a wild-goose chase across Babylon.”

“Oh.” Crawly swallowed. “Yeah, sounds like me. And you’re…” They had a faint memory of a bright-eyed kid, but they’d seen a fight brewing across the street when they were two intersections away from the destination and ditched them. 

Not a great start to an acquaintance. Oops.

“Ea-nasir,” said the vendor. “Did your friend make it out all right?”

“My—” Oh, they’d said they had a friend in the fight, hadn’t they? Well. Far be it from Crawly to pass up an opportunity to ingratiate themself with an unsuspecting human. 

Crawly adopted a sad expression. “He lost an eye.”

Ea-nasir covered his mouth with one hand. “That’s terrible!”

“Yeah. ’S okay now. Mostly. Anyway. You make it to the market all right, in the end?”

“In the end.” Ea-nasir smiled a little. “And I didn’t have to use that road. I can’t imagine how anyone ever thought that was a good idea.”

Crawly smirked. “Y’know, I don’t think anyone ever did, really. Bad idea right from the get-go.”

Ea-nasir laughed now. “That makes more sense than the alternative.” He paused. “What brings you to Ur, anyway?”

“Oh, this and that. I got bored of Babylon. Thinking of sticking around.”

“Have you had a proper tour yet?”

Crawly knew the city well enough having stayed in Ur after the Flood and Babel, but it was practically a free temptation. Especially since Ea-nasir seemed just as much of a goody two-shoes as he was when they first met.

So they shook their head. “Not really.”

“That’s too bad. Meet me here in an hour—that’s when my shift’s up.”

“I can stay if you like,” said Crawly. “I’ve seen most of the market already.”

“If you want. Business isn’t great out here, anyway. I’d leave myself if I could.”

Not just a free temptation—it was being handed to them on a platter. 

Crawly leaned against the wall. “Why not? If you get back before the end of your shift, no one would be the wiser.”

“I wouldn’t want to lose the business. Someone could stop by.”

“Is it likely?”

Ea-nasir sighed. “Oh, fine.” He walked out of the stall and locked it behind him. “Come on—there’s an excellent vinter selling this way. It’s early enough in the day we should be able to catch him.”


	226. 1761 BC - Itjtawy, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back! Hello. :D

_1761 BC. Itjtawy, Egypt_.

Aziraphale finished the sentence he’d been transcribing and set his stylus down carefully, then lifted the papyrus to blow on it. He’d returned to scribe work about nine years earlier, and was quite happy to be back at it. As much as he loved human children, they became grating upon overexposure.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside Aziraphale’s workroom.

He lowered his papyrus to look toward the door. “Hello?”

A human stepped into view. “Hi,” they said. “Aserfel?”

“That’s me. What can I do for you?”

Their face fell. “You don’t remember me.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“It’s okay. I should have expected that. It’s been a long time, and I look a bit different than I did.” They shook their head. “Never mind. My name is Amenaa?”

“Oh! Of course. I’m afraid you’re rather, er… taller than you were before.” The last time he saw Amenaa, he’d been an overexcitable boy. “Come in.”

Amenaa nodded and moved farther in, going to sit in a scribe’s posture* across from Aziraphale. He didn’t say anything, eyes darting around the room.

(* A scribe’s posture nearly identical to Aziraphale’s, in fact, which the Angel noted with no little pride.)

“Can I help you?” 

Amenaa looked back at him. “Yeah. Sorry. It’s just… you’ve done well here.”

“Thank you. Now what can I do for you, my dear?”

“I don’t need you to do anything. I just… I need advice.”

Ah. Well, if there was one thing Aziraphale excelled at, it was that. It was his job, after all. Or his proper one. Scribe work didn’t count. 

Aziraphale smiled as kindly as he could. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Well… it’s a long story. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your work.”

“It’s no trouble. Besides, you seem to be rather in need.”

Amenaa laughed nervously. “I guess so. The thing is, for the last… fifteen years, I guess, I’ve been a jeweler.”

“How glamorous.”

“Yeah. I work in a jewelry house—they trained me, and I’ve been creeping up the hierarchy. But the master is retiring soon, and he wants me to take his place.” Amenaa stopped, his expression nearly a grimace.

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “You don’t want to?”

“No.” Amenaa wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I took the job because my dad wanted me to, and… well, I never stopped until now. But I want to be a scribe. Or a storyteller.”

“You certainly have the skills for it,” said Aziraphale mildly. “I was quite impressed by your work when you left school. What was it the other boys called you?”

“Cunning of fingers.” The corner of Amenaa’s mouth quirked into a small smile. “I know I could do it. It’s just. It’s a big thing. I have a career, and a family to support…”

“Would it make you happier?” 

“I hope so. But what if it doesn’t?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Something would turn up. You have a trade, after all.”

“I guess so. You think I should do it?”

“I think it’s a marvelous idea. Though of course,” Aziraphale gestured to the tools in front of him, “I am rather biased in that regard.”

Amenaa laughed. 

“And, forgive me if I’m wrong, but it seems to me that seeking out your old teacher from sixteen years ago says something about what it is you want.”

“Oh, yeah. Huh.” He paused. “I guess I should tell them I’m quitting, then. That’s a big decision.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I’m sure it will work out.” He imbued the words with a bit of Angelic power—just enough to ensure he’d be right.

“Thank you, Aserfel.” Amenaa got to his feet, squaring his shoulders with intent. “I’m going to be a scribe.”

“You’re going to make a very good one, too.”

“Thanks.”

“Of course.”

Amenaa nodded and walked to the doorway. “Okay. I’ll go, then. Scribe!” He paused and looked back at Aziraphale. “Good luck.”

“Thank you. Let me know how it works out.”


	227. 1750 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

_1750 BC. Ur, Babylonia, Mesopotamia_.

Crawly looked over the table of copper ingots. They picked one up and examined it in the light, then set it down again and sauntered back over to Ea-nasir. “Good stuff, that.”

“Hmm? Oh, it is.” He was focused on a pair of tablets in his hands.

“Who’s it for, then?”

“A man named Nanni. He’s sending a messenger to pick them up tomorrow morning.” Ea-nasir frowned, finally looking up at Crawly. “You know that. I’ve told you that before. Haven’t I?”

“You have,” Crawly assured him. “I forgot, though. Is it worth it?”

Ea-nasir lowered the tablets. “Not this again.”

“Not what again?” Crawly asked in as innocent a voice as they could muster.

“That was once. I’m not cheating someone again.”

“It’s not cheating them. The phrasing’s ambiguous. Not your fault if they don’t get properly worded contracts.” Crawly moved closer, holding out one hand. “Let me see what you told them.”

Ea-nasir sighed and held out one of the tablets. “This is a bad idea.”

“I’m just looking out for you.” Crawly took the tablet and skimmed it. “Gotcha.” They leaned toward Ea-nasir, pointing to the relevant phrase. “It just says ‘fine quality.’ That’s subjective. Wouldn’t hold up in court. Promise.”

Ea-nasir took the tablet back and stacked it with the other one he held. “I don’t want to get in trouble. You know what the punishment is for cheating people.”

Crawly grimaced. “Don’t I just.” They’d been there while Hammurabi and his cronies argued it out. “I swear, it wouldn’t hold up in court. At most, you’d get an angry letter like last time. And that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“I guess that was pretty funny.”

And there it was. They’d done it. Could call it a day, but this had been years in the making, and could use a bit of polishing. And they still had to verify that Ea-nasir carried on as he had been.

Crawly smirked. “It was funny, though. Who knows, maybe you could keep the next one. Put it up on the wall. ‘People who didn’t check the exact phrasing and got what was coming to them.’”

Ea-nasir’s jaw dropped and he swatted Crawly’s arm with the flat side of a tablet, smiling grudgingly.

They fended him off, laughing. “Hey, hey, it was just an idea.”

Ea-nasir’s attack abated and he leaned back against one of the tables of copper. “What’s the plan, then? Swap all this out before Nanni’s messenger arrives?”

Crawly pointed two fingers at him, thumbs raised. “Bingo. I knew you had it in you.”

“I didn’t.”

“Well. So long as it works out in the end.” They turned to look at the copper. “Actually, y’know what? You go get something to drink. I’ll swap these out.” Wasn’t any sense having both of them working for hours when Crawly could do it with a snap of their fingers. 

Not to mention, Ea-nasir got cross when he was hungover. If he drank enough tonight, Nanni might have more to complain about than substandard copper. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ea-nasir was a [real person](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Complaint_tablet_to_Ea-nasir) who did in fact swindle a person named Nanni for substandard copper. He’s a bit of a meme. As a result (as I discovered after I decided to write this) there are more fics on Ao3 about Ea-nasir—and indeed, about Ea-nasir and Crowley. I haven’t read them, but they are in the ‘Ancient Mesopotamia’ tag, and I find it hilarious that a random copper merchant from Ur nearly 4,000 years ago has multiple stories about him.


	228. 1744 BC - Ur, Mesopotamia

_1744 BC. Ur, Babylonia, Mesopotamia._

Crawly leaned obnoxiously on the door frame, whistling off-key.* They hadn’t been to Ea-nasir’s house yet, and intended to make as much of a nuisance of themself as possible. 

(* This wasn’t out of spite so much as the fact that they hadn’t learned how to whistle on-key. They could sing a bit—not terribly well, and not that they’d admit it—but whistling was one skill they hadn’t yet bothered with properly.)

The door swung open and Ea-nasir stepped out. “Oh, Crawly. I’m glad to see you.”

They pushed off the door frame. “And you. Nice place you got here.”

“I guess so.” Ea-nasir stood to the side. “Come in.”

They swung past and followed his gesture to the left into a large, square room dominated by a table. Four other doors led in more directions, one left open. 

Ea-nasir shut the door gently and followed them into the room. He groaned as he lowered himself slowly down to sit at the table. Then he looked at Crawly and gestured to the seat opposite. “Please.”

Crawly sat across from him, sideways. “Right. What’s the news, then?”

“The deal with Imgur-sin went well. I’m satisfied.”

“Have you got a letter yet? Fruit of your labours for the last hurrah?”

Ea-nasir chuckled. “I’m not out of the game yet.”

“I thought you were retiring?”

“Oh, I am. Not as young as I used to be.” He looked up at Crawly, smirking. “Unlike some of us.”

“I’ve told you, it’s my skin care. Phoenician.” Crawly’d been using the excuse for the last forty years and had inspired at least two merchants to make misguided trips north. 

“As if I’d believe that.”

“I don’t think you do,” said Crawly, flipping back their veil so they could see him better in the dim house. “But it’s fun to say.” They sniffed, looking around the house. “What was it you wanted to show me, then?”

Ea-nasir jerked a thumb to the open doorway behind him. “Take a look. Think you might get a kick out of it.”

Crawly raised their eyebrows. “Is that so? Guess I have to, then.” They stood and walked around the table, then through the door.

It led to a narrow room, dominated by a shelf with what might have been sixty tablets. That was strange. Most people didn’t keep tablets lying around. Unwieldy things, especially compared to papyrus. 

They picked one up and skimmed it. It was a message from a bloke named Abituram complaining he hadn’t received the copper he was promised. The next one they picked up was also a complaint.

Crawly started shuffling through them, smiling slowly. What a petty thing to do. All these annoyed humans’ words, preserved for posterity. This was _brilliant_.

They turned back toward the main room, grinning properly now. “Ea-nasir, you bastard.”


	229. 1733 BC - Itjtawy, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for alcohol use.

_1733 BC. Itjtawy, Egypt._

Aziraphale passed Amenaa a cup of wine. “Tell me about this new story of yours, then.”

“It’s not a story yet.” Amenaa frowned into the cup. “You’re too good to me, Aserfel.”

“No such thing, dear boy.” Aziraphale settled into his seat, his own wine in hand. “Your story, then? Something about an island, was it?”

“Yeah. It dissolves into the ocean.”

“Not meant to do that, are they?” Aziraphale had been to some islands during his travels before Babel, and no one mentioned them dissolving. Though to be fair, in his current state of inebriation, his powers of recollection were a bit muddled.

“No,” said Amenaa. “This one has a serpent on it.

“Oh?”

“A magical serpent.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “How… creative.” He paused. “I know a magical serpent, you know. Of sorts.” An infernal serpent. Demonic. Occult. “They’re not a serpent all the time though.”

Amenaa frowned. “What are they the rest of the time?”

“Not a serpent,” said Aziraphale helpfully, then blinked. “Oh, that doesn’t mean terribly much, does it? Erm. A human-shaped being. A tad taller than me. Very thin. Bony. With a…” He made a wobbly gesture toward his cheek. “A tattoo, that’s it. On their cheekbone. And golden eyes.”

“Golden?”

“Snake’s eyes,” said Aziraphale, attempting to muster righteous disdain and failing miserably. When had he stopped being repulsed by them, exactly? Sometime since Babel…

“I guess that makes sense,” Amenaa said. “This friend of yours—”

“Oh, they’re not my friend,” said Aziraphale quickly. “Rather the opposite.”

Amenaa looked confused. “Your magical snake friend… is your enemy?”

“My Adversary.” Aziraphale took a sip of wine. “Wily… fiend. Demon. Etcetera. Can’t stand them.”

“Sure.”

“They’re wicked and clever. I spend all my time thwarting them, when they’re around. It’s terribly irritating.”

“Where are they now?”

Aziraphale waved a hand. “Somewhere. ‘Something came up,’ quite a while ago now.”

“Oh,” Amenaa said. “Are you sure you don’t like them?”

Aziraphale glared at him. “Quite sure. In fact, I’m cern—cerait— I know it.”

“Sorry. I’m not trying to… suggest anything.”

“I should hope not. Now, tell me about this sailor? Are they _on_ the dissolving island, or was that the magical serpent?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Forgot the historical note on this one, whoops! While I was reading up on Middle Kingdom literature (as you do) I saw a thing about [an early fantasy story.](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tale_of_the_Shipwrecked_Sailor) When I went to look it up, it had a serpent, and I couldn't resist. The scribe who wrote the surviving copy was named Amenaa.


	230. 1721 BC - Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Heavenly emotional abuse and a panic attack.

_ 1721 BC. Heaven. _

Aziraphale paused on the stairs. He was still in the Earthly plane—the thin air made that clear, at least. But he’d been scolded before for arriving out of breath, so he’d set out early this time in order to have time to stop. He hadn’t planned for lower oxygen concentrations at altitude. 

Thinning air was such a strange quirk of Creation, he had half a mind to ask around and see who’d done it. Though there was a relatively high chance that whoever it was had Fallen, and that would be an unpleasant conclusion. So perhaps it was better if he didn’t. 

He took one more deep breath, then began climbing again. It couldn’t be much farther now. 

The border between Earth and Heaven tickled his skin gently, welcoming him home. It was almost enough to help him relax. 

The last few steps were a trifle, especially now that he could breathe properly again, and he emerged into the Earthly Arrivals room with a smile. He wasn’t out of breath at all, and he’d arrived before Gabriel. 

There was another Angel in a distant corner, overlooking the balcony. They didn’t react to Aziraphale’s appearance.

“Aziraphale!”

He spun around to see Gabriel striding toward him. Goodness, human bodies did the strangest things. His stomach seemed to have clenched of its own accord. He took a deep breath and forced it to relax, keeping up his smile. “Gabriel. It’s an honour.”

“As always.” Gabriel reached him and clapped his hands together with a sigh. “Aziraphale. I’m sure you know what I have to say.”

He had to relax. There was absolutely nothing wrong. Just a report! “Do I?”

“We got your written report.” 

“Oh!” He’d sent it up just in case, but hadn’t expected—that is, he hadn’t thought—well, it was good to hear they’d read it. “Jolly good. I hope it was all in order?”

Gabriel made a sympathetic expression. “Aziraphale… I wish I could say it was. But you have to understand, this is out of my hands.”

His throat closed up.

“It’s nothing too horrible,” said Gabriel. “But I do wonder if you’ve been using your time as befits an Angel. You recall how I came to get you for your last report?”

“It was very kind of you to fetch me.”

“Kindness is what we do.”

“Quite right.”

“The thing is, Aziraphale…” He paused, guilt written across his square features. “It didn’t look too good for you.”

“For me.” It was intended to be a question, but Aziraphale couldn’t manage much in the way of intonation. 

“You had wine in your hand when I arrived,” said Gabriel. “Don’t try to deny it. But I know how dedicated you are to blending in with the humans. Michael, though… they didn’t see it that way.”

Aziraphale had fallen out of a boat once and landed in the Buranuna. It had been Crawly’s fault. This felt rather like that. Cold, and confusing, and everything swirling about him in—

“So we sent a reconnaissance officer down to see what you were doing.” Gabriel paused. “Do you know what they saw, Aziraphale?”

Oh dear, that warranted a response, didn’t it? “I imagine, considering—”

“Good work,” Gabriel interrupted. “They saw good work, but not enough of it.”

Aziraphale exhaled.

“The Archangels have discussed it, and we decided that it’s not fair to you to expect you to write reports in addition to your duties  _ and  _ to direct verbal reports. So, in the interest of efficiency,” said Gabriel, “we’ve decided to eliminate direct reporting.” He grinned. “What do you think?”

Aziraphale blinked. No more direct reporting? That would hardly free up time to change the numbers on his reports… though perhaps he ought to restrain himself in other arenas. Less food, wine. Stop getting close to humans. Dear Amenaa had passed away, so it was just as well.

Drat, he had to answer, didn’t he? 

“That sounds terribly… efficient,” he said. “I’ll be sure to, er. Up the ante, as it were.”

“Good!” Gabriel beamed. “I thought so too.”

“Indubitably,” said Aziraphale with less feeling than was quite convincing. 

Luckily, Gabriel didn’t seem to pick up on that. “Well, I’ll see you… whenever the Plan requires it.”

“Quite.” Aziraphale managed a smile. “I’ll hop to it, then. Chop chop. Lots to do.”

“Bye!” Gabriel waved. 

Was that all? Aziraphale frowned. He  _ had _ turned his report in already. Well, then. 

He turned on his heel and went to begin descending the stairs again. 


	231. 1709 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to gambling addiction, referenced sexual harassment, implied/referenced gender dysphoria, and use of alcohol as a coping mechanism.

_1709 BC. Uruk, Babylonia, Mesopotamia._

Crawly folded her hands on the table and leaned forward to watch a distressed-looking human through her veil.* “Everything all right?”

(* As helpful as it was, it was a right pain having to dress like a bloke all the time to avoid being propositioned. She’d gone as far toward femininity as she dared, which wasn’t far. Sometimes, humans were proper bastards. The lot of them.)

The human stirred their wine with one finger, head resting on one fist, their elbow propped on the table. “Do I look like it’s all right?”

“No,” she said. “You look like there’s something on your mind.”

They snorted. “’Course I do.”

She waited. If they broke and said whatever it was, she had a decent chance. If not, it probably wasn’t worth the effort to wrangle it out of them.

“It’s my friend Nutesh,” the human said finally. “He wants me to join his dice games again.”

Crawly raised an eyebrow under her veil and tilted her head. “Oh?”

“It’s a bad idea, but I hate letting him down.” The human looked moodily into their cup, then took a sip.

“Why’d you stop?”

“Kids asked me too. I kept losing money.”

Crawly made a thoughtful noise. “That’s not permanent in dice, is it? I mean, isn’t the whole point that you can win it all back?”

“That’s what I said!” They sighed, then deflated again. “I shouldn’t, though. I’ll write Nutesh and apologize…”

“Is that necessary? I mean, why not do one game, for Nutesh. Then you can go back to not doing it.” 

The human frowned, apparently trying to consider. It didn’t look like it was going too well, though. They looked too drunk for considering.

Better help them along, then. “If you just do one game, then Nutesh is satisfied. Your kids wouldn’t have to know. And you’re not likely to lose much on the first go, eh?”

“I guess not.” The human sighed. “I think I’m worried I won’t be able to stop.”

And that’s the whole point, isn’t it? 

Crawly controlled her expression. “What, not being able to stop after one game? Seems a bit superstitious to me.” 

“Does it?” The human sighed. “I guess it is all in my head, isn’t it? I can just stop…”

“You can make Nutesh happy, and your kids. Heaven, you can make yourself happy. It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“It is…”

“Go on, then. When’s the dice game?”

“Tonight. Right about now, actually.”

Well, that was lucky. Crawly could tag along and make sure the human won enough rounds to get hooked again, and leave them to it. 

She resisted a grin, and stood. “Come on, then.”

“What?”

“You can’t disappoint Nutesh, can you? It’ll be fun.”


	232. 1699 BC - Waset, Egypt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for slavery.

_1699 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Aziraphale sat back and examined the beginning of his new report. It wasn’t too shabby, if it was permissible for him to think as much. He’d been working on adding a bit of flourish to his hieroglyphics, though it was a slow process. He’d taken care after his last trip to Heaven to dedicate more time to work and less to scribal pursuits. Either way, his report had turned out splendidly so far.

He set it to the side so the ink could dry and reached for his water to moisten his ink cake for the next papyrus. 

At that moment, however, Divine light flashed through the room and a scroll appeared. 

Aziraphale dropped the water and it shattered over the ink cake, sending shards of pottery and inky water over the floor and the edge of his linen kilt. 

“Oh, dear me.” The ink would stain his kilt something awful. 

He snapped his fingers, clearing up the better part of the mess. The ink still stained his kilt, though. And persisted even after a second miracle. 

Perhaps the ink was cursed somehow. 

He prodded it with one finger, but sensed nothing out of the ordinary. Another finger snap cleaned his finger.

It was a shame. He’d only had this kilt for fifty years.

Aziraphale sighed and tucked the stain out of sight. He had more important matters at hand. Most pressingly, the scroll that appeared in a flash of light.

He picked it up and unrolled it. 

The scroll was written in sloppy Hebrew, the letters each as large as one of his thumb nails. He’d received a similar message a few months ago ordering him to return to Waset and await further orders. 

Why they hadn’t told him as much when he delivered his last report in Heaven, he wasn’t certain. Most likely an oversight.

At any rate, this scroll had instructions. He was to report to a specific house within a neighbourhood and bless the family living there. There was a note about a baby, but he couldn’t quite make that bit out. Hopefully, it wasn’t terribly important.

He put away his things, and picked up a shawl before leaving his house to go find the appointed neighbourhood. He wound his way into the areas on the outskirts of the city where the Israelites had been driven. 

He’d lived in this area with them for a few years, after they were enslaved, doing his best to ease their pain and fear. There wasn’t much he could do while not allowed to free them, but he’d felt he had to do _something_. Uriel made him leave when she arrived.

The house was at the end of a row of similarly constructed, dilapidated houses. Some of them looked like they’d been new when he was last here, some… goodness, three hundred years ago. 

He knocked on the door. 

It opened slowly. A thin-looking human in feminine clothing looked out. “We don’t want any trouble.”

Aziraphale’s heart sank. He looked nearly like an Egyptian these days, didn’t he? “Don’t be afraid,” he said in Hebrew. “I’m a friend.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “You speak Hebrew?”

He smiled and tried to radiate Angelic kindness. “As I said, I’m a friend, dear. May I come in?”

She stepped to the side, revealing a small room. A man sat at a table, holding a baby. Two children sat in a corner, and looked up from their play when he came in.

The door shut behind him, and Aziraphale tried to keep smiling. These humans seemed quite frightened. Which was understandable, of course. It just made him feel terribly awkward. 

“Hello. Erm. I’m Aziraphale. I just thought I’d come and…” Goodness, he hadn’t thought up a reason to be here. Not one the humans would understand. “I brought this.” He reached under his shawl to bring out what was hopefully a reasonably small amount of money. “I heard you had a baby and thought it might be of use.”

“Why?” The woman looked suspicious. 

“I also heard that your family is rather faithful. To God, that is. Of course, I’m sure you knew that.” He sighed. “I’m terribly sorry, I’m afraid I’ve mucked it all up. I do that, you see. Quite a lot.”

The humans didn’t look any less suspicious. Oh, well. Best get it over with. 

Aziraphale handed the woman the bag. “There you are.” He surveyed the humans, and blessed them. He did the baby twice for good measure, and they hiccoughed. Hopefully his instructions said something of the sort. 

Could a blessing hurt a baby? Not a _human_ baby, surely. And the Plan didn’t call for any other sort for another sixteen hundred years, at least. And not one a blessing might hurt for… quite a bit longer than that. And he wasn’t meant to concern himself with that one. 

“Aziraphale, was it?” The woman opened the door again. “If there’s nothing else, we have to get the children to bed.”

“Quite right.” He took a few steps toward the door, then paused. It couldn’t hurt to ask, could it? Just in case someone checked up. “I realize it’s a bit of an odd question, but… what’s the baby’s name?”

“Jochebed,” the woman said. “Her name is Jochebed.”

“Ah.” It didn’t mean anything to him, but it might be helpful to remember it. He could jot it down later, perhaps. “Thank you ever so much. I’m sure she’ll be just tickety—” He paused. “Or rather, not.” A lump rose in his throat. He could be doing so much more for these people. 

Best not think like that. It was the Plan, after all. For the greater good! One day, it would make sense to him, and he’d be glad he never questioned. 

“Have a lovely evening.”

He turned and hurried out the door, then stopped when he turned the corner. He couldn’t see. Aziraphale miracled up a light, the flame flickering pitifully against the darkness, and began the walk home. 


	233. 1689 BC - Uruk, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for depressive thoughts, mentions of blood, reference to murder of a child, and reference to torture.

_1689 BC. Uruk, Babylonia, Mesopotamia._

Crawly turned away from the town square, a bitter taste in her mouth. That was it. The last straw. She’d finished with Babylonia. Bloody Hammurabi and his _fucking_ law code. 

She kicked a barrel, and it exploded more vigorously than it would’ve naturally, sending wine pooling in the sand. None of it dared hit her, of course. The rivulets of deep red ran around her feet, picking up dust as they went. 

It didn’t make her feel any better.

Crawly kept walking, one bare foot splashing in the wine. 

She’d just finished a temptation. Barely one worth noting, really. There’d been a kid. A young one. Eleven or twelve years. Not an adult by any definition. He’d been hungry, and Crawly thought it couldn’t hurt, to convince him to take something from one of the grocers. 

It shouldn’t have hurt. 

But no, the humans had to be such bastards they’d kill a starving child for stealing a piece of bread. 

And they went on and on about how _just_ they were. ‘Fair punishment’ this and ‘legal procedure’ that. As if killing kids was good, somehow, because the rules said so. 

Well, if killing kids was good, half of Hell was in the wrong bloody place. 

And she shouldn’t care. She ought to be skipping through the streets like a good little Demon. ‘I got a kid killed today, whoop-de-do. Almost like an Angel.’

She’d get over it. She always did. Something like this happened every decade or two. No matter what she did. Followed her around like a Hellhound on a scent. ’Course it did. She was a bloody Demon. 

A human bumped into her and she shifted to her more Demonic form on instinct, roaring at them. 

The human’s eyes widened and they collapsed. 

Crawly bit back a harsh sound in her throat. It burned. And her chest was screaming at her to breathe, but she hadn’t in several minutes now. 

She had to look a sight. Feet stained with wine, and maybe blood. Hair a mess. She’d lost her veil somewhere along the line, too. 

Someone clapped her by the shoulder. 

She stiffened, and shivered. That wasn’t a human. 

“THE DEMON CRAWLY, I PRESUME?” The voice was young-ish, but too deep and too evil to belong to a child. 

She turned slowly. “Yes.”

Burning eyes stared back at her, the human’s head cocked at an uncomfortable-looking angle. 

Fuck. 

Crawly dropped to her knees in the sand, head bowed. Please, please let him have not seen her face. She didn’t know who she was begging, exactly. Not God, obviously. And Satan—well, if she wanted him to hear her, she’d have spoken aloud. “My lord,” she said, and blast her human voice for trembling. She’d curse her vocal cords into oblivion the moment she was done if she didn’t need them.

“YOU’VE DONE EXCELLENT WORK HERE, CRAWLY.”

“Thank you, lord.”

“THE LOWER DEMONS BELIEVED YOU HAD EXHAUSTED YOUR POTENTIAL AFTER THE GARDEN. I AM PLEASED THAT THEY WERE WRONG.”

“I’m flattered, my lord.”

“I EXPECT YOU TO MAINTAIN THIS STANDARD, OR THERE WILL BE CONSEQUENCES. _PAINFUL_ CONSEQUENCES.”

“I understand, lord.”

“GOOD.”

The human’s body crumpled to the ground. Something snapped. Not the neck, though. Didn’t sound like that. A wrist, maybe. 

Crawly stayed in the sand, and didn’t bother to look up. The humans moved around her, not chatting away as if Satan hadn’t just appeared on Earth. 

And that was the irony, wasn’t it? Nothing here counted in Hell. Nothing. Not one little tiny bit. The kid who’d died today was in their own afterlife now, whatever that was. Hopefully, it was better. 

Better than what, Crawly wasn’t sure. Better than Hell. Better than Earth. 

She’d go back to Egypt, maybe. At least with the Israelites there, the things she did mattered. 

And Aziraphale was there. 

She could use a friend right now.


	234. 1677 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for slavery.

_1677 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Aziraphale paused on the doorstep of the humans’ house. He’d been growing closer to this particular family for the past few years. Strictly for work, of course, though he wasn’t allowed to bless Israelites very much. No, he’d been experimenting with the human sort of assistance. Lending an extra pair of hands here and there. Or some food, or money. 

The trouble was, they’d got it into their heads he was some sort of… ‘family friend.’ It was terribly awkward. He’d been doing his best not to grow attached, but it was surprisingly difficult to turn down social invitations politely in a way that allowed him to keep visiting and helping out.

Which was what brought him here. It was a celebration. He couldn’t very well turn them down—they had so few, under the circumstances. And he’d hate to put a damper on the proceedings by failing to appear.

Aziraphale could hear the party going on inside. Humans talking, a steady rumble over the faint sound of an instrument. He could smell food, too. 

He hadn’t eaten in positively years.

It was a waste of his time, really. He had to remember that.

A small child squealed somewhere down the street and he turned to see a family approaching. 

The child—a girl named Emzara, and wasn’t that something—ran straight into him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Uncle Aziraphale!”

“Hello, my dear.” He patted her on the head. What was he meant to say here? Oh, yes. “Goodness, you’ve gotten quite tall, haven’t you?”

“I lost a tooth!” She grinned up at him, showing an unfortunately grisly bit of gum. 

“How nice.”

“You see it?” She overennunciated the ‘s,’ which made her sound rather like Crawly. It was quite endearing. 

“I do.” He took hold of each of her arms and pried them gently from his middle. “Quite. Now, isn’t it time for you to go into the party?”

Emzara turned to look at her mother, who’d reached the base of the steps. “Can I?”

Her mother nodded. 

“Yay!” Emzara opened the door and darted inside. 

Aziraphale sighed and turned to her mother. “I’m sorry—I’m not sure what they see in me.”

“Just the goodness in your heart.” Emzara’s mother winked. “And they remember that you give them dates.”

“Oh. Is that not right?”

Emzara’s mother laughed. “Don’t worry.”

“I suppose I can try.” He opened the door and stepped to one side. “After you.”

The rest of the family entered, and he followed them, shutting the door behind. Now all he had to do was attend an entire party without eating. After all, these humans needed it far more than he did. 

Someone tugged at his sleeve and he looked down to see a small boy smiling at him. “Can I have a date?” 


	235. 1670 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to slavery, implied/referenced misogyny, and brief manhandling.

_1670 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Crawly stood and stretched theatrically, then looked straight at her temptee. “You’ll do it, then?”

The temptee in question was a pompous, middle-class Egyptian man. He nodded. “Yeah. I’ll do it. Serves them right, anyway.” He paused, then looked up at her. “Won’t you stay?”

“Nah. I’ve got somewhere to be, sorry.” She didn’t have anywhere to be, really. This guy just happened to be fantastically boring. She turned and waved a few fingers at him. “Bye.”

He was almost certainly gawking at her, but it didn’t really matter. The temptation was done.

She hurried down the steps of his overly large house and set off down the street, whistling. She’d just arrived back in Waset this morning, after far too many years scouring Itjtawy for any sign of her angel. 

When a different Angel popped up, she’d known it was time to go. Right as soon as she healed up from the fight. 

But now, she was in the right city. She was nearly sure of it.

She really shouldn’t visit Aziraphale. It was a terrible idea. Angel. Demon. All that. But she’d had a miserable few decades, and she was seventy percent sure she could keep her new, _friendly_ feelings in check, and seventy percent was enough to be going with for now. 

Besides, Aziraphale was argumentative enough, maybe he’d put her off him. It would be convenient, that.

The Angelic presence seemed to be moving toward the edge of the city. It made sense, of course. That’s where the slaves lived. And, well… the Israelites were slaves at the moment. And they were the humans who mattered. 

She paused in an alley to switch into less eye-catching clothes. Still black, obviously, but made of slightly coarser material. The last thing she needed was a bunch of panicked humans running around thinking she was coming to hurt them. 

Besides, if she wasn’t posturing with uppity Egyptians, she could mess with how she dressed more. Find that razor edge right before humans started thinking she was a woman. Which she was, as much as she could be, but… things weren’t so good for women in veils these days. 

And as a bonus, humans confused about her gender were almost as funny as the ones who noticed she wasn’t aging. 

She stepped out of the alley, and stopped short. There he was. 

Aziraphale was hurrying across the street, eyes darting back and forth. He looked almost… suspicious. Terrible look for him, really. 

Well. Might as well have some fun. 

Crawly disappeared and reappeared by his shoulder. “Hello, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale’s forearm caught her across the chest and she found herself pinned to a wall. 

Her throat closed up. Satan, had she miscalculated? She thought they were on good terms now. Weren’t they?

Then Aziraphale’s eyes focused properly. “Oh. It’s you.” He let her go and stepped back. 

“Happy to see you too.” Crawly rubbed her shoulder with one hand. Why’d Angels have to be so bloody strong? “Didn’t mean to scare you, sorry.”

“I wasn’t _scared_ ,” said Aziraphale haughtily.

And the trouble was, she believed him. He hadn’t looked scared in the slightest.

She swallowed. “Anyway. I just got here. Thought I’d say hi. Make sure you knew I was here.”

“I think you’ve rather succeeded.”

“Mmm.” She dropped her hand from her shoulder. “Where were you going? Somewhere you’re not meant to be?”

Aziraphale shrugged and spread his hands in performative helplessness. “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

“Aziraphale.”

He scowled and looked away. “It’s none of your business.”

“Angel work, then?”

“Not as such.”

Crawly grinned. “ _Not_ Angel work, then. I like it.”

“Really, Crawly.”

“What?”

He was worrying one fingernail with the other hand. “If you must know, I was going to pay a visit to a… family of my acquaintance.”

“Right. Israelites?”

Aziraphale’s eyes flickered to her veil and away again. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”

Crawly grinned. “’Course you can’t. Can I come?”

“No.”

“Aww.” She sighed. “Well. I’ll get on, then.”

“I suppose that’s for the best.”

“Worst.”

“Best.”

“It suits both of us.” She turned and started walking away, slowly. “Have a good visit, Aziraphale.”

“It’s not a visit!”

Crawly chuckled. “Social call.”

“I ought to smite you,” he said, and somehow, this time, it sounded almost fond.


	236. 1657 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mass murder (infanticide), alcohol as a coping mechanism, grief, implied/referenced anti-Semitism, and references to torture.
> 
> There is more Biblical context for those who need it in the end notes. :)

_1657 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Crawly was drunk. Well, not drunk. Tipsy. Slightly sozzled. Point was, she wasn’t in her right mind. Not properly. That had to make it better, right? Plausible deniability. 

Unshed tears clogged her throat. She couldn’t breathe. 

How was she going to go back to court after this?

How was she going to look them in the eyes without hearing screaming mothers and the splashes of the Nile?

Crawly stumbled into someone, who cursed at her. It wasn’t her fault. She couldn’t see, between her veil and the water in her eyes. 

It wasn’t her fault.

She was close now. Had to be ’round here someplace. She’d staked it out, a few years ago. And Aziraphale was a creature of habit. 

Didn’t help, though. 

She found a convenient wall and slid down to lean against it. He was nearby, anyway. Or so her senses told her. 

Her veil was damp when she pulled it off and threw it to the ground. Dust stuck to the spots where her tears stained it, incriminating. Hadn’t been able to tell before she took it off. Brilliant colour, black.

“Crawly? Is that you?”

She looked up to see Aziraphale looking at her from the doorway of his house. His eyes were red, and his white curls mussed. 

“’S me.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Maybe.” She pushed herself to her feet. “Sssorry. I’ll go. Didn’t mean to—” She hiccoughed once, and found she didn’t have the energy to feel humiliated. “Didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You’re in no state to go anywhere.” Aziraphale stepped aside. “Now. Get inside before someone sees you.”

She swayed through the door and stopped a few paces in, taking in the room. It was positively ascetic. A table. A neat pile of scrolls. But there was nothing else. Not even a bed. 

“Really, I’d have thought you’d have the sense not to run about like that.” Aziraphale had shut the door and was looking her up and down. 

Good old Angelic judgement. 

Or maybe care.

Ugh.

“Wasss looking for you,” Crawly said. “Wanted to tell you. Not me.”

“Not you?” 

“The thing,” she said. “The bad thing. ’Sss not me. Not my style.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked away. “That. I know.”

“You do? How?”

He didn’t answer. 

“Heaven?”

Aziraphale made a tiny, tiny noise. Then he looked at Crawly, and smiled one of the least convincing smiles she’d ever seen. “It’s part of the Divine Plan.”

“Oh, shit.” Crawly sat down heavily on a chair that appeared helpfully behind her. “I’m… that’sss.” Of course it was Heaven. Bloody genocidal pricks.

“I can’t question it,” said Aziraphale. “I can’t.”

Crawly buried her head in her hands. It wasn’t fair. A tone of voice wasn’t supposed to hurt. But somehow, this one did. Right in her chest. “’Course not. It hurtsss.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Falling. Nasty.”

“I won’t. You can’t make me.”

“I’m not trying to make you Fall, Aziraphale, believe me.” 

“Good.”

Crawly sighed. 

Right. One soused Demon. One not-Fallen Angel. At least a hundred-odd drowned infants— _not thinking about that_. There had to be something they could do that didn’t involve thinking about it. 

“Wine,” said Crawly. “D’you have some?”

“I don’t drink.”

“Like Heaven you don’t.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows.

“Shut up.” She waved a hand, summoning a cask from her own house. “Cups?”

They appeared next to the cask, and Crawly set about filling them. A more comfortable pair of chairs appeared somewhere along the line, and somehow, she found herself sitting across from Aziraphale. 

“Beautiful stone,” Crawly said. “Bloody gorgeous. Black diorite. Polished, y’know? And the script.”

“What language?”

“Akkadian. Sumerian’s on the outs, I think.”

“What a shame.”

“Mmm.” Crawly sat forward. “Thing is. Right. Beautiful stone. All that. But, the laws.”

“Horrible things,” said Aziraphale with conviction. He took a dainty sip of wine, and bless it all, Angels weren’t supposed to be _dainty_. “Had a client, once. Dear girl. Her brother’s sister was accused of adultery, and she had to send a letter to make sure she was quit—accu—that is, that they didn’t kill her.”

Crawly nodded emphatically. “See, see, that’s the thing! Go on about how just it is, and then murder the poor sap.”

“There’s no need to be quite so morbid about it, Crawly.” Aziraphale frowned. “Besides, weren’t you just saying that you invented the thing?”

“Of course I didn’t _invent_ it.” She sat back and crossed her arms. “I just reported it.”

Aziraphale stared off into the middle distance for a moment, then locked eyes with Crawly. “Do you mean to tell me,” he said in a manner that would have been very serious indeed if not for the drunken lilt to his voice, “that you lied?”

“I am a Demon,” Crawly said in a singsong tone. “And it’s not like I’ll get in trouble for it. They still think I designed the pyramids, and it’s been a thousand years since the humans came up with those.”

“I thought you hated the laws?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you do.”

“I don’t.”

“It was quite clear. Plain as day, on your—” Aziraphale gestured at Crawly in general. “Face. As it were.”

Crawly hissed. “Really, shut up.” She shouldn’t be here in the first place. Not at all. And if Aziraphale could tell she wasn’t keen on the laws—or the pyramids, for that matter—well, all Hell would break loose. Or, not loose.

Come down on her as painfully as Demonically possible. 

“It’s obvious,” said Aziraphale, then downed the dregs of his wine.

Crawly exhaled through her nose, then leaned forward. “Aziraphale.”

“Hmm?” He looked from his cup to her. 

“Aziraphale. Listen to me. I can’t have them finding out. Right? I’m not saying you’re wrong—no, wait, I am—but the point is, they can’t find out. Not ever. They’d hurt me. Bad. They’d destroy me.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened.

“Yeah. So, point is. Shut up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Biblical context: the Pharaoh ordered the execution of all male Israelite babies born during a certain period of time.


	237. 1648 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for slavery and reference to murder.

_1648 BC. Waset, Egypt._

“Who was that?” Miryam peered out the window, where a figure clothed in black had just merged with the crowd. 

“Nobody,” said Aziraphale. “What was it you needed?”

She turned away from the window. “They looked like an Egyptian,” she said suspiciously.

“She’s not, I assure you.” Aziraphale gestured to the chairs that had taken up permanent residence in his house. “Would you like some wine?”

“I suppose.” She sat and watched him as he gathered it. 

Miryam was terribly perceptive. There was something about her that reminded him almost of Abraham, or Israel. One of that family. And of course, she was related to them, distantly though the relation was. But not all of the Israelites were quite like that, which suggested it was something about her in particular.

“What brings you here, then?” Aziraphale passed her the wine and settled into his chair. “Is your brother well?”

“Aaron is… as well as can be expected. He’s still recovering from his run-in with the outgoing soldiers.”

Aziraphale grimaced. There’d been quite a lot of political upheaval recently, though he wasn’t especially clear on what it was. Crawly tried to explain once—she was taking credit for it, of course—but he’d been rather drunk at the time and it was a bit fuzzy. 

“And the other brother?” Miryam’s younger brother had been meant to perish with the other Israelite babies nine years ago, but they had tricked one of the Pharaoh’s daughters into adopting him instead. 

Miryam shook her head. “I told you, I don’t know how he is. Mother had to leave the palace after he was weaned.”

Dear Jochebed. She’d been awfully distraught. “I’m sorry to hear it,” he said. 

“It is what it is,” said Miryam. “He’s going to help us one day.”

“I do hope so, my dear.”

She took a sip of wine, lowered the cup, and looked at him. Analyzing. Then she tilted her head. “Who was it?”

“Who?”

“The person who was leaving when I arrived.”

Oh dear. He wouldn’t be able to dissuade her, would he? “An old acquaintance. Crawly.”

“Strange. I’ve never seen dye that black before.”

“It’s quite rare.” Which was true. It wasn’t dyed, but the colour was unique on Earth. “You needn’t worry about her.”

“Is that supposed to reassure me?”

“Truly.” He sighed. “She’s… well. She’s not what she appears.”

Goodness knew he was growing to understand that now. She kept appearing, now that he’d let her in once. And he’d never quite got around to turning her out. It was… novel. She understood things no human could. Things no Angel had context for either. 

And he wanted to be suspicious of her. But… it grew harder with time. Right before she left, they’d been reminiscing about a particular artisan in Eridu whom they had encountered separately, a decade apart. Her eyes lit up when she talked about that sort of thing, however serpentine they might be.

“What is she, then?” Miryam asked. Was that a smirk?

Aziraphale shifted, and tutted. “Really, it’s none of your business.”

“Fine. I haven’t given up, though.” She sighed, then perked up. “Oh, Puah’s son might need a visit.”

“Really?”

“He’s not very badly off, but he’s not well.”

Aziraphale sighed. He’d have to go over after Miryam left. 


	238. 1643 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for misgendering and references to slavery.

_1643 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Crawly looked between the two soldiers guarding the prince’s quarters. “Come on, guys. You know me.”

“No one may see the prince without his permission,” said one of the guards stiffly, then adjusted his grip on the spear. “Move along.”

“Seriously?”

“We will remove you if you do not leave.”

Blast it all. Crawly turned to leave, then stopped. Someone was moving in the room. 

The doors opened and the prince looked out. “What’s all this? Lord Khural?”

Crawly winced. “Just Khural is fine.”

“I see.” The prince looked a bit bewildered, but shrugged. “Want to come in?”

“Thanks.” She shouldered past the soldiers. “I told them you wouldn’t mind, but they wouldn’t listen.”

“Just doing their jobs.” Prince Moses smiled indulgently at the soldiers. “Thank you.” Then he shut the door and turned to Crawly. “What’s so urgent?”

“Ehh.” She could be honest, or she could… not. “Not much. I was just bored.”

Prince Moses grinned, flopping onto a lavish seat. “All those war meetings?”

She groaned, sitting sideways on a chair opposite him. “Don’t get me started. Half a dozen oily men arguing over how other people will die.”

Prince Moses laughed. “It almost sounds like you don’t care about the war, Lady Khural.”

“I don’t,” she said. “I mean, don’t tell the Pharaoh, but… I mean, it’s how kingdoms work, isn’t it? Build up, fall apart, build up again. Repeat. And drag all the little people along with ’em.”

“Treachery.”

“Sorry, your highness.”

Prince Moses picked up a cup of what was presumably wine from… somewhere, and took a sip, then laid back again. “How exactly do you survive in court with opinions like that?”

“Practice,” she said. “Loads of practice, like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Yet you’ve been here as long as I have.” 

“I have to keep some things private.” She’d been tempting* the prince for a few years now. They ran into one another in one of the gardens and got to talking. “How’s your mother?”

(* She called it tempting. And she did plan on putting anything Moses got up to on her reports. But she wasn’t putting in the effort. It was just nice to talk to someone in court once in a while. Aziraphale was wonderful, of course, but he didn’t really understand politics the way she did.)

“Well. I haven’t seen her in some time.” Prince Moses paused. “How are things… outside?”

“Same as ever.” She raised her head to look at him properly. “Why? Getting restless?”

“No.” Prince Moses took another sip of wine. “What about your friend?”

“My friend?”

“Your angel.”

“Right.” She was still regretting saying _that_ to disguise Aziraphale’s identity. It worked well enough, of course. She thought of him that way sometimes, anyway, which meant she didn’t have to keep track of a pseudonym. But it was a little too on the nose to be completely comfortable. “He’s fine, I think. Worried about one of his Israelite friends. But it’s been a bit since we talked.” A few months, maybe? Aziraphale got snippy if she showed up too frequently. 

Prince Moses nodded. “The Israelite friends. Labourers?”

“Mm. He’s a labourer, anyway. The wife’s a nurse, I think. Not sure about the kids.” Not that they were kids, really. All of them were older than the prince, and plenty old enough to have kids of their own. But they’d been kids when she first heard about them, so kids they stayed.

“Would money help?”

“You can’t go around paying people every time you hear about a slave family in trouble.” It’d throw off the courtly expectations, sure, not to mention Heaven’s Plan, but it’d look terrible for her if word reached Hell. And Aziraphale might get pissy about it, which she wasn’t in the mood for after last time Prince Moses got it into his head to help Aziraphale’s human charges. “It’s not sustainable. Besides, he isn’t without means.”

“Why doesn’t he pay, then?”

“His family, remember?” She’d come up with a convoluted backstory replete with reclusive, controlling, judgmental arseholes of a family. It was a good thing the prince was so sheltered, or she’d have been found out a long time ago. “Wouldn’t go well.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s politics.”

“But they’re suffering!”

Crawly shrugged. “Nothing I can do about it. Not that I’m not already doing, anyway.”

Prince Moses groaned. “Well, I don’t like it.”

“If you don’t like it, you’ll have to do something about it yourself, your highness. Sorry.”


	239. 1630 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for alcohol use, reference to the Flood, and reference to sex.

_1630 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, you’ve got it all wrong. Jacob is Israel. Joseph brought the Israelites here.” He punctuated the statement with a stern nod.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Crawly shook her head. “Jacob’s the second son. Isn’t he? I thought the ruddy bloke was Israel.”

“No, the ‘ruddy bloke’ is Esau. He gave Jacob his birthright for a bowl of lentil stew.” It had been very good stew, too. One of the best stews Aziraphale could recall having. Stew would be lovely right now. 

“Stew?” Crawly asked incredulously. “Must’ve been bloody brilliant stew.”

“It was, rather. I was just thinking as much.” Aziraphale frowned, concentrating, then snapped his fingers and conjured up a bowl of stew on the floor between them. “Something like that.”

Crawly had turned upside down in her seat and was talking to herself. “Stew. Ssstew. Stoo. Shtew.”

“Crawly, I conjured the stew.” Aziraphale crossed his arms. “Or shall I send it away?”

“Aziraphale. Why’re you upside down?”

“You’re upside down, Crawly, not me.”

Crawly flickered into her snake form and back, then restored herself to an upright position. “Stew. Right.” She picked up the bowl and tasted it, then made a face. “Are you sure that’s right?”

“Pass it over.”

She did.

He took the bowl and then a cautious bite of the stew. It tasted almost exactly as he remembered. “Yes, it’s right.” 

“Guess I’m not good at food.”

“Not good at it?”

“Ngh. It’s not right in my mouth. Like wine, though. Oh, and dates. Figs are all right.”

“I like figs.”

“And apples!” 

“Those are scrum—” Aziraphale stopped. He set the bowl of stew down. He squinted at her. “Crawly.”

She blinked at him once, eyes wide in mockery of innocence. “What?”

“Apples.”

Crawly tittered. “You like them.”

“Not in the cot—conto—not the way you’re saying.”

“What way’s that?”

“You know.”

“I do,” Crawly agreed.

Aziraphale took a sip of wine from a cup that hadn’t been there until he reached out, and sighed contentedly. It was nice, not thinking properly for a bit. Just a few hours, without worrying about the Israelites, or blessings, or any of it. It was… peaceful.

“What happened to them?”

He looked up at Crawly. “Come again?”

“The unicorns, Aziraphale. What happened to them.”

Drat. And he’d been having such a nice time. He swallowed. “Really, Crawly, you were there. Must we dredge it up again?”

“I was there? Where?”

“At the Flood.”

“Oh.” She tilted her head. “What’s that got to do with it?”

“One of them ran off. I seem to recall that you said it was ‘too late’ and persuaded Shem not to follow.” He’d had trouble forgiving her for that one. A whole species, lost! Until he’d realized it was almost certainly part of the Ineffable Plan, of course.

“They still had th’other one.”

Demons shouldn’t be allowed to make that expression. Somewhere between confused and something that made Aziraphale’s throat feel tight. 

“It takes two, Crawly.”

“To what?”

Oh, good lord. Surely not. Surely she’d been _told_. Or worked it out. It wasn’t some sort of secret. “To… make a child?”

“What? No, ’s just the pregnant one.”

“They… dear me.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. This was quite the turn of events. He’d assumed she’d be well versed in that sort of thing. She was a Demon, after all! 

Well. She couldn’t very well go on not knowing how it worked.

Aziraphale explained. It was dreadfully uncomfortable, Crawly’s eyes growing wider. He thought he saw a tear at one point, but it seemed indelicate to mention it. Though to be quite fair, there was little delicacy in the conversation. 

When he finished, he took a rather large swig of wine, and looked anywhere other than Crawly. Goodness, he felt warm. 

“I didn’t know,” Crawly said quietly. “Shit. I thought—I thought they just did that… y’know. For fun.”

“I’m afraid not.”

She buried her face in her hands. “So… they’re gone. All of them?”

“Quite so.”

“Why didn’t you go after it?” 

“I was busy thwarting you.” The words felt dead on his tongue, but he said them anyway. He hadn’t been meant to interfere.

“’Course. Yeah. Evil Demon, et cetera.”

“Really. I’ve said nothing of the sort.”

Crawly lifted her head to raise her eyebrows at him.

“Not recently,” he amended.

“Seriously?”

“It was the Plan, Crawly.”

“Sure it was.” She then muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘liar.’

Aziraphale humphed. “There’s no need to be rude.”

“Demon.”

He opened his mouth to note her hypocrisy, then saw the grin she was sending him over the top of her cup of wine, and shut it again. She really was a fiend. 


	240. 1617 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for blood and references to murder, slavery, and anti-Semitism.

_1617 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Crawly ran a hand over her face as she walked toward the door of her house. Somebody was knocking, which was strange considering it was the middle of the night. She’d been looking over trade reports from court, and planning on trying to get some shut-eye sooner or later.

Whoever it was hadn’t stopped knocking. She went to open the door. “Persistent bugger,” she muttered as she opened it. “What do you want?”

“Lady Crawly.”

“Your highness?” 

Prince Moses was alone on her doorstep, dressed in… rags, basically. He had a smudge of dried blood on his face, and he looked terrified. What was he doing outside the palace, anyway? 

“May I come in?”

She stepped to the side and shut the door with more force than necessary. “What’s going on? You look terrible.”

“I made a mistake,” he said, pulling off the ragged robe. He had his normal clothes on under, though the normally pristine white of his kilt was dusty, the pleats mussed. “The Pharaoh’s trying to kill me.”

Crawly rounded on him. “He _what_?”

“He’s trying to kill me.”

“Why the Heaven is the Pharaoh trying to kill you? You’re his— his—” His something. She’d given up trying to keep track how the Pharaohs were related to one another a long time ago. 

“I killed an Egyptian.”

Crawly groaned. She was way too sober for this. “Moses. Your highness. What the fuck.”

“I know, I know, it was wrong. But he was beating up an old man. He would’ve killed him if I didn’t intervene!” Moses collapsed into a chair and buried his face in his hands. “I just… ever since I found out that I’m one of the Israelites… I can’t stand it.”

“Well, the good news is, you won’t have to do that anymore.” Crawly barred the door and pulled up a chair to sit across from Moses. “So, let me get this straight. You left the palace. Went to where the Israelites were working. Felt sorry for them. Killed an Egyptian. And now the Pharaoh— _your relative_ —is out to kill you?”

“That’s right.” 

Crawly cast a tired look at the sky. “Bloody terrible Plan.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry about it.” She sat back, exhaling through her nose. “And you’re here… why?”

“I didn’t know where else to go. I know you’re sympathetic to the Israelites.”

“Shut up. I’m not sympathetic to anybody.”

Moses raised his eyebrows.

“Oi.” She paused. “It’s just as well. At least I won’t turn on you for murder.”

Now he looked shocked and just a little frightened. Crawly allowed herself a smirk. Moses committing murder would look fantastic on her report. “It’s bad, obviously,” she said. “But. I’m not going to kill you for it. Unlike some people.” 

Moses gaped at her.

“So. You’ve murdered some wanker who beat people up for fun. Your dad-or-uncle-or-whatever is pissed, and wants to kill you. Right?”

“Yes…”

“Right. Well, there’s only one solution.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ve got to leave Egypt.” She scowled at his expression. “Don’t look at me like that. D’you want to die? No? Great, you’re leaving first thing tomorrow.”

“What?”

“Could do tonight. Humans can’t see in the dark, which could give us an edge.” She sighed. Regardless of the Pharaoh’s current opinions of him, Moses was a prince of Waset, so he wouldn’t be welcome anywhere else in Egypt. “Midian. Or Mesopotamia, but they’re a disaster. Kush, maybe. Punt. Canaan’s not ideal either…” She looked at him. “Where d’you want to go?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The trouble with mixing actual history with pseudo-historical scripture passed down by oral tradition is that the dates for things don’t line up consistently or in a way that makes sense. The Biblical chronology I’m using puts a lot of Exodus in the middle of the Second Intermediate period. Since I’m not up for manipulating my chronologies, I’ve based this in Waset/Thebes and just… gone with whatever Pharaoh was there at a given time (there were a lot of Pharaohs around this time...), even though that doesn’t quite align with scripture.


	241. 1614 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to prostitution, murder, and minor gender dysphoria.

_1614 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Aziraphale set his stylus down with a sigh. “I’m afraid I’m not open for business at this time!”

“I have wine,” a familiar voice said, albeit muffled by the door. “’S honeyed. And if you don’t let me in soon, I’ll just be standing out here.”

“Open it yourself.”

“Oh. Yeah, right.” 

The unpleasant sensation of Demonic power washed over him, and the door opened, ushering Crawly in. She shut it and bolted it again, then waved a hand at herself. Her clothes shifted into a long dress, and her figure changed slightly. 

She shuddered, then crossed the room to the table where Aziraphale had been working, and set a jar of wine down in an empty corner. “There.”

“Marvelous.” Aziraphale blew on his ink once, then rolled up his scroll. It was clear he wouldn’t be getting any more work done on that—and it was just as well. It was a dreadfully dull bit of legislation copying he hadn’t quite managed to refuse. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?” Crawly had flipped her veil back and was examining a row of scrolls at the other side of the table.

“Change your clothes like that.”

“Oh. I mean, I know _you’re_ not going to think I’m a prostitute just ’cause I’m a woman in a veil.” She winked at him once, then went back to the scrolls. “I know that’s not what you meant. Er. It feels better, I guess. And I can wear what I want in private.”

“I see.”

“You could do it too. If you wanted.” She brushed one of the scrolls with a gentle finger. “I know you used to dress differently.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “It’s not a problem.”

“I didn’t say it was. Just. If it’d make you more comfortable.”

He shook his head quickly. “I don’t want to be wasteful.” And keeping two wardrobes would certainly use more human resources than he could rightfully claim as his. It didn’t really bother him, anyway. Not like it did Crawly. They were all just clothes, after all.

“Suit yourself.” Crawly straightened up. “You’re scribing again?”

“Miryam grew suspicious of my unemployment.”

“Sounds like a fine woman.”

“She’s sharp.” Aziraphale sighed. “Although it was quite sad.”

“Oh?”

“Her mother died last year.”

Crawly made a sympathetic expression. “I hate it when they do that. The nurse, right?”

“Jochebed,” Aziraphale agreed.

Crawly froze. “Jochebed, the nurse?”

“That is what I said.” Aziraphale picked up the jar of wine. “I believe you said this was honeyed?”

“No, no, hold up. Jochebed.”

“You have repeated yourself quite enough, Crawly.”

She hissed. “Israelite woman. Had a son who was ‘killed’ with all the others, plus some other kids? Worked at the palace?”

Aziraphale looked sharply at her. Jochebed’s youngest son was born when the Egyptians were killing children, some forty years ago now. The boy hadn’t been killed, though. He was hidden, and taken to the palace. “How did you know all that?”

“I knew the kid,” Crawly said. “Know. Moses, right?”

“I’m not sure. He was a prince?”

“That’s the one.” Crawly grinned. “Of course it was you. Well, you and your little collection of humans.”

“You know him? He’s not dead?”

Crawly shook her head. “Nope. Living in… Midian, I think. He killed an Egyptian after he found out about his parentage and ran off so the Pharaoh wouldn’t kill him.”

Aziraphale set the wine down carefully, fingers shaking. This could be very, very bad for him. “Jochebed’s boy was the prince who ran away?”

“Yup.” She looked far too pleased with herself.

“And you—you _corrupted_ him?” 

“No.”

“He killed a man, Crawly!”

“That wasn’t me. I mean, I did convince him to be sympathetic to the Israelites, but that’s just routine sowing of dissent in the Egyptian court.”

Aziraphale wrung his hands. This was terrible. He’d be in such trouble. Jochebed’s boy was meant to free the Israelites! He was the whole reason Aziraphale was here, and he’d let the boy be tempted by a Demon. 

“Aziraphale?” Crawly took a step closer. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m done for,” he moaned. “I was meant to watch over him!”

“What? Oh, shit.” Crawly looked stricken. “You won’t be in trouble, will you?”

“I don’t know. I suppose Gabriel did say he’s meant to journey… I assumed it was a diplomatic expedition.” But come to think of it, perhaps that was what the Plan had ordained. They couldn’t give him all the information, after all, since he was on Earth. Aziraphale sighed. “I’m being silly. Of course, good will triumph in the end.”

Crawly looked confused. “Right. Okay.” 

Her eyes were dreadfully perceptive. 

He looked away, and tried to smile. It would all turn out well in the end. That was how the Divine Plan went! “Wine, Crawly?”


	242. 1601 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence, xenophobia, and anti-Semitism.

_1601 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Crawly paused in the middle of the road and turned slowly to look at Aziraphale’s house. She hadn’t meant to stop by. Really. It was late afternoon, and she’d just been walking home from court. But… she could hear something from inside.

Shouting. 

And it didn’t feel any more Angelic than usual, which suggested it was just Aziraphale. Well, and humans.

Crawly snapped her fingers, summoning a scroll from her study at home. It didn’t really need copying, technically, and she could, strictly speaking, do it herself, but… needs must.

She darted around a human passerby and knocked at the door.

There were definitely people inside. She could hear a human shouting, as well as the low murmur of Aziraphale’s voice. He sounded calm enough, at least. 

What the Heaven. 

She pushed through the door, mouth open to say something, then stopped short. 

A tall, burly human in masculine clothes stood in front of Aziraphale’s desk, glowering at the Angel. That wasn’t the strange bit, though. 

The strange bit was that Aziraphale was smiling at him. “Are you quite finished?”

The human blinked. “I’ll do it!”

“I don’t think that would be a very good idea.” Aziraphale placed one hand on an unrolled papyrus and pushed it across the table toward the human. “Now. You may leave under your own power, or I shall be forced to escort you from the premises.”

The human laughed. “You couldn’t escort me two steps.”

Aziraphale’s smile dropped. “I very much doubt that.”

Crawly swallowed. 

The human raised a fist, and Crawly shrank back toward the door. She couldn’t very well stop him, after all. 

The blow fell in slow motion, descending toward Aziraphale’s upturned face. Then it was stopped short by his hand. 

“Well, really. There was no need for this sort of unpleasantness.” 

The human looked perplexed, the muscles of his arm tensing as he apparently tried to move his hand.

“Do be careful. You might break something if you struggle too hard.”

The human growled and brought the other arm down toward Aziraphale, who caught it just as easily as the first. 

“Now, I can’t imagine what you could possibly have hoped to accomplish with that. It’s quite clear that I am physically stronger than you, and by a significant margin, too.” Aziraphale sighed. “Dear me.”

The human jerked away, and Aziraphale released his grip. The human’s momentum sent them stumbling backward to the other side of the room, where they landed with a thud. 

Crawly gaped at him. “Aziraphale?”

“Not now, Crawly. This—well, not a _gentleman_ by any means—this fellow was just leaving.” He stretched his arms out in front of him, examining his nails with a critical eye, then leaned forward over his desk. “Weren’t you?”

The human stood, rubbing his buttocks with one hand, and glaring at Aziraphale. 

Crawly stepped out of his way and watched wide-eyed as he left Aziraphale’s house and slammed the door. 

There was a strange sensation in her stomach. It wasn’t _fear_ , exactly, though that would be the logical reaction to watching an Angel demonstrate his strength. She swallowed again. “Sorry, should I come back later?”

“Don’t be silly.” Aziraphale sniffed, picking up the papyrus from his desk and rolling it up with practiced fingers. “What was it you needed?”

“I just—I mean…” She’d meant to see if he needed help, but she couldn’t very well say so after _that_ , could she? “I heard shouts.”

“Ah. Yes, he was rather displeased when I refused to copy his little manifesto.”

“What?”

Aziraphale held out the scroll. “See for yourself.”

Crawly took it and scanned the lines. “Oh. Ugh.” It was a half-coherent tirade against all manner of people, most significantly the Israelites and people of other nations with whom Egypt often fought. She didn’t finish reading it, and set it down on the table. “I can see why you wouldn’t.”

“Quite.” Aziraphale frowned at it. “You know, I think it might be best if I didn’t keep it.”

“Oh?”

“I wouldn’t want it to fall into the wrong hands.”

Crawly glanced skyward, then slowly back to Aziraphale. “I’m… definitely the wrong hands.”

“Well, I suppose I couldn’t do anything if it were destroyed by a Demon.”

“What?”

Aziraphale sighed and pushed the scroll toward her, then turned pointedly in the other direction.

Crawly picked it up. “Destroyed… by a Demon?”

“That is what I said. I couldn’t very well behave in such a manner. The Angels in the Miracle department are cross with me as it is.”

“Right.” She licked one finger, lighting a flame, and touched it to the papyrus. It burned away faster than it would have naturally, leaving a faint dusting of ash on her fingertips. “You can turn back now.”

Aziraphale turned and beamed at her. “Dear me,” he said in a voice that sounded anything but disappointed. “Whatever could have happened to it.”

Crawly shrugged and looked at a spot a bit to the left of Aziraphale’s head. He wasn’t literally glowing, but he might as well have been with that smile. “Dunno.”


	243. 1587 BC - Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to both slavery and murder.

_1587 BC. Heaven._

To the most holy Archangel Gabriel, from the Principality Aziraphale.

 **Report date** : Winter. 1,587 years Before Christ. 

**Location** : Waset, Egypt, Africa, Earth, Material Reality.

 **Assignment (Primary)** : Guidance of human charges.

 **Assignment (Additional)** : Ensure the freeing of God’s chosen people from Egyptian bondage, in accordance with articles 223-F to 246-B of the Divine Plan. 

**Report** : Moses, son of Jochebed and Amram, is still in Midian, and is not expected to return until 1,577 years Before Christ, per the Divine Plan. I have maintained contact with Aaron and Miryam in the interim. 

Miryam has exhibited signs of prophetic tendencies. Please advise. 

Concealment from humans remains effective. They believe me to be a harmless scribe. My front provides me with income to supplement Israelites’ funds. As outlined below, it has not compromised productivity, and aids me in performing Her work to the best of my ability. 

There has been normal occult activity in Waset since my last report. I thwarted an incident at the border of the city. A Demon of insectoid persuasion attempted to tempt a human into murdering their family. I sensed the Demon, and dispatched them to Hell promptly, with minimal damage to my body. The human was easily persuaded to abandon the Demon’s plot. 

Two other incidents occurred. One was a lower Demon who returned to Hell upon becoming aware of my presence. The Demon Crawly has also been present in Waset. However, I am confident that they do not suspect me of discorporating them. Further, their presence did not affect human sin relative to the previous decade. 

Blessings and guidance have been carried out in accordance with new regulation—see attached document for details. 

I acknowledge the new miracle policy and am monitoring my consumption in accordance with it. Thank you for bringing it to my attention. 

**Notes** : I have not yet been informed of the Plan following Moses’s return to Egypt. Please advise. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since Aziraphale and Crowley no longer have regular in-person reports to their respective head offices, we get little forays into epistolary. :D


	244. 1577 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mass murder, grief/depressive thoughts, references to the Flood, implied/referenced slavery, and effects of emotional abuse (Heaven).

_1577 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Aziraphale felt the death before he heard it. Not a punch in the gut, just… an emptiness, rolling in a wave over the rooves of Waset. Then the wailing began. 

It hurt. It hurt, so much. He could feel the grief, thick in the air, following Death’s path through the city. It weighed him down, each cry a weight upon him. 

His stylus fell from his fingers onto the papyrus. It spattered small, glistening drops of ink over his work. He’d thought he could keep control of himself. 

Silly. 

He felt… wrong. Normally, there was a subtle undercurrent of love, ebbing and flowing with the tides, emanating from the humans all around. But now… now, the streams were changing, tainted with waves of sadness. It was love, to be sure, but love deprived. Broken. Its target gone, forever.

Aziraphale sucked in a shuddering breath. It was for the greater good. The Israelites would be free at last. That balanced it out. 

Didn’t it?

He had to move. He had to go. They’d be leaving soon. He had to protect them. To guide them. 

He stood slowly, dreamlike. He could hear wailing outside. Parents without sons, spouses without husbands, children without fathers. The Flood had been terrible. Terrible. But that had been the sudden loss of everyone all at once. Not this torrential grief. 

The night was dark. Of course it was dark. It had been dark for days now. Another of Heaven’s little gifts. And the moon was out, now. That was… something. 

Aziraphale made to walk toward the edge of the city, but found he couldn’t. His legs wouldn’t cooperate. 

Oh, well. 

Someone was coming. He could hear someone running. 

“Aziraphale!”

He turned his head. That was Crawly’s voice. 

Crawly skidded around the corner and stopped. “Aziraphale.” She looked him up and down, yellow eyes looking frightened as she crossed the street to him. “Fuck. You look terrible.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but found he couldn’t put the words together. Instead, he wrapped his arms around himself and lowered his head as his shoulders began to shake. “I’m sorry.” 

“What?” Crawly’s hands were on his shoulders, pulling him in, tucking his head into her shoulder. Her thin arms were strong around him. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“But I do.” He dropped his arms from their protective position. “I do. I—I must. Or else—why would they—”

“Don’t,” said Crawly sharply. “Don’t you dare.”

“But… but I don’t understand.”

She pulled him in closer. “You don’t have to. It’s ineffable, right? That’s what you said. I’m the one who asks questions here.”

“All of them,” he said. “Dead.”

“I know.” He could hear her swallow, and draw in a ragged breath. “I _know_ , Aziraphale. Believe me, I know. I had a chat with Azrael. It’s a bloody… buggering… God-awful Plan.”

“It’s the Divine Plan.” The words didn’t really form in his head. Not the usual way. He just said them, on instinct. 

Crawly chuckled, the sound wet. “Yeah, there you go.” 

She relaxed her hold on him, but he didn’t move away. 

The grief was still there, in the air. He could hear the humans sobbing. And if he—and some part of him thought that if he moved away, he’d drown.

“Aziraphale?”

He buried his face in her shoulder again. Maybe if he didn’t look at her, he could say he’d thought she was human. A Demon wouldn’t do this, after all. Comforting an Angel. Unless…

“Am… am I going to Fall, Crawly?”

She hissed, then shook her head emphatically. “No. No, you’re not. You’re an Angel, Aziraphale. No questions, okay?”

“I can’t—”

“Please. Promise me. No questions.”

He sniffed.

“What happens if you Fall, hey? The Israelites need you.”

“They’d get along. Send another Angel. A better one.”

One that didn’t fail, time after time after _time_. First the Garden, then the Flood, then Sodom, and now this. Every time he had even a hint of responsibility, he found some way to muck it up. The humans deserved better.

“You’re the best Angel I’ve met.”

Aziraphale shook his head. If he were a good Angel, he wouldn’t be crying into a Demon’s shoulder. He wouldn’t need a Demon to talk him out of questioning. 

“No, hang on. Listen. I’m not kidding around. Just ’cause I’m a Demon doesn’t mean I can’t tell good from bad. I have to know what’s bad so I can do it. And you’re not. So… there.”

Aziraphale sniffed again. He’d stopped sobbing, now. He was coming back to himself, too. He could feel the ground under his feet again, and smell Crawly’s sweat and perfume. 

He took another deep, shuddering breath, and stepped back. Crawly let him go. 

“I won’t question,” he said, voice still shaky. 

“Oh, there you are.” Her expression was earnest, and her golden eyes shone in the moonlight. “The humans need you. They’ll be frightened, and the Egyptians won’t be happy if they stick around.” She paused. “They might even have some unleavened bread to spare.”

He hadn’t thought of that. Bother.

Crawly laughed. “It’s not as bad as all that, is it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“’Course not.” She watched him fondly, then extended a hand toward the edge of the city. “Go on, then. People to save. They deserve it, after four hundred years. You do, too.”

Aziraphale nodded once, and attempted a smile. The grief was still there, but it was fading slowly into his periphery. He’d be able to just about ignore it sooner or later. And leaving Egypt would help. 

He wouldn’t Fall tonight. She was right: they needed him.

“Thank you, Crawly.”

“Don’t worry about it, angel.”

Aziraphale turned and began walking away, slowly. Crawly watched him leave. 

_Angel_. It sounded different now, from the last time he’d heard Crawly call him that. Softer. Not an insult so much as… something else, and far too much to think about tonight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favorite scenes that I've written so far. 150,000 words in and they get a hug. :)


	245. 1573 BC - Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to murder, torture, and slavery.

_1573 BC. Hell._

To Dagon, Lord of the Tablets.

**When** : Spring. 2,431 years After Creation. 

**Where** : Waset, Egypt, Africa, Earth, Material Reality.

**What [The Big Stuff]** : Tempt humans into sin to bring about Armageddon and the triumph of Hell.

**What [Minutiae You Still Can’t Screw Up Without At Least A Little Bit of Discomfort Afterwards]** : ~~Fuck~~ Screw up the Divine Plan thing with the river kid and lots of child murder.

**Report** : I intercepted Heaven’s agent [Moses] when devout humans attempted to remove him from Egyptian hands. I then diverted him to the Egyptian court and forced him to integrate into the royal family, corrupting him. 

Agent’s sympathies were quickly compromised, and he accepted the Egyptian perspective on Israelite enslavement quickly. He was tempted daily to sloth, greed, gluttony, and pride. Intermittent temptations included wrath [see below], envy, and lust.* He also accepted blasphemy and worshipped Egyptian idols.

(* Only after Moses had reached a reasonable age for it, obviously. And Crawly wasn’t strictly involved in it. She watched from the sidelines, just enough to make sure he was engaging in it, then got the Heaven out of there.)

Temptation to wrath was extremely successful. By slowly increasing the intensity of suggestions, I was able to compromise the agent’s values. Agent grew increasingly violent, until he murdered a man who posed no threat [Do you even read this? I bet you don’t bother reading this. Oi, Dagon! Tell Hastur he smells like the lovechild of a particularly nasty pigstye and a vulture’s lunch.] to himself. Agent expressed minimal regret, and abandoned Egypt. It is worth noting that the agent’s role as ordained by the Divine Plan required his presence in Egypt. 

Agent remained sympathetic to me on his return to Egypt. Despite having been swayed to Heaven’s side, he expressed few qualms using Heavenly favour to torture Egyptians, including summoning Pestilence, Famine, and Death. His callous dispensation of suffering suggests successful Hellish influence during his upbringing.

Regular temptations carried on as usual—see attached tablets. Should be four of them. 

No trouble with Angels. Saw a Principality once, but he didn’t give me any trouble. 

**Questions** : What’s the point of you lot having a copy of the Divine Plan if I can’t see it, anyway? I could’ve stopped this whole thing going off if you bastards weren’t so bloody incompetent. I mean, I get the whole suffering thing, but it’s _Heaven’s_ idea, so I ought to have stopped it. Also, why should I bother with these reports if you don’t read them? That’s what I want to know. 


	246. 1558 BC - Dilmun, Arabian Peninsula

_1558 BC. Dilmun, Arabian Peninsula._

Aziraphale finished stoking the fire, then sat back to lean against a large rock. He would ordinarily have gone to bed soon, but he’d volunteered to watch the fire. 

It was a clear night. Stars speckled the sky, reminding him far too much of the night some seven hundred years ago in Memphis. Crawly had tempted him onto a roof and they’d watched the stars over the pyramids.

The crunching sound of footsteps in the sand drew his attention away and he turned to see Moses standing on the opposite side of the fire, a blanket about his shoulders.

“Ah.” Aziraphale sat up straighter. “Good evening.”

Moses raised a hand. “I’m just here to talk, don’t worry. Or maybe watch the fire.”

“Oh, please, sit down.” 

Moses sat down cross-legged and leaned forward against his staff, which he planted in the ground.

“Is something troubling you?” Aziraphale asked.

“Not really.” He turned his head to look at Aziraphale. “What about you?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I’m an Angel. Few things trouble me.”

“Few isn’t none.”

“I suppose not.” Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I was just thinking about the stars.”

Moses looked up, gaze flicking across the sky. “They’re beautiful tonight.”

“Indeed.”

He looked back at Aziraphale. “What were you thinking about them?”

“Nothing of importance.”

Moses hummed, and closed his eyes. Silence fell for a few minutes, broken by the crackles of the fire and quiet noises from the Israelites’ tents. 

He hadn’t spoken with Moses very much. Certainly not outside businesslike concern* for the tribes. The man spent most of his time with his wife or in his tent, communing with the Almighty.

(* Moses was particularly concerned by the route they were taking to Canaan. Aziraphale had been assigned to guide the humans to the promised land, but his grasp of geography was questionable at best. The journey should have taken a few years at most. Instead, it had been nearly twenty years, mainly because Aziraphale had been guiding them around the Arabian peninsula in a large figure-eight by mistake.)

“Is it difficult for you, on Earth?”

Aziraphale looked up. “Oh? No, I don’t think so.” He paused. “I suppose it was… not ideal, for a bit. But it’s been so long, I don’t really think about it anymore.”

“Hmm. You’ve been here since the Beginning?”

“More or less. I spent a few decades in Heaven a few hundred years ago.” Aziraphale paused. “Did… did God tell you that?”

Moses nodded.

“I see.” It was strange, knowing that this human had spoken with Her more recently than he. And he’d seen Her, of course—the business with Israel sprang to mind—but it was a bit sad nonetheless. 

Part of him—quieter, as the years passed—wanted to prod the emotions he was feeling. String them out and examine them. But whenever he thought about it, he saw golden eyes staring at him. He’d promised her that he wouldn’t question. 

“What are you thinking about?”

Aziraphale exhaled sharply through his nose. “Just an acquaintance.”

Moses frowned.

“One meets all sorts when they’ve been on Earth as long as I have. Sometimes… they come to mind.”

“It must be difficult, seeing us all die.”

“It is.”

Another silence. Moses shifted his staff to his other shoulder. “Did I ever tell you about my friend in court?”

“Oh?”

“One of the Lords.” He paused. “A woman, actually. She was Egyptian, but sympathetic to the Israelites.”

Crawly. Of course it was Crawly. Aziraphale kept his face as neutral as he could. “She sounds odd.”

“She was. I think she may have been one of their idols.”

“What?”

“The Egyptian idols.” Moses paused. “I was raised Egyptian. I thought I could see them, sometimes.”

“I see.” Aziraphale swallowed. “She could have been… I don’t know. A Demon, perhaps?”

Moses shook his head. “I don’t think so. She wasn’t perfect, but she was far better than most of the Egyptians. Too good to be a Demon.”

Crawly would _hate_ that. Aziraphale settled for a non-committal hum in lieu of a response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the thing is, that if one were to just walk from Egypt to Canaan, it wouldn't take forty years. Yet the story goes that that's how long it took. So, given that an angel was supposedly guiding them... well, what solution is there but for Aziraphale's sense of direction to just be That Bad?


	247. 1546 BC - Waset, Egypt

_1546 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Crawly watched her temptee storm out of her shop and turned to lean against the wall, groaning. She’d been doing really well until she lost focus and got just a little overexcited. Now, she’d be lucky if he even came back.

Two weeks of work, gone! Just like that. 

“Are you okay?” 

That was a child’s voice. Bless it. 

She turned and crossed her arms. “What do you want?”

It was the temptee’s kid. She vaguely remembered sending them to play in the back room when they arrived with their dad.

“You sounded mad.” They wandered over to a table which held an ornamental vase and examined it. “Where’s Daddy?”

“He buggered off.” At least she could count that, if nothing else. Right? Parental negligence had to be a sin. 

The kid raised a hand to poke the vase.

Crawly scowled. “ _Don’t_ touch that.”

They dropped their hand. “Sorry.” Their brow wrinkled up. “What’s ‘buggered’?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I wanna know.”

“Not telling you.” Crawly sniffed. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Djehuty.” They turned to look around Crawly’s shop. “If you won’t tell me, then where’s Daddy?”

Right, that. She’d have to track him down, wouldn’t she? Bloody humans and their rules. “No clue.”

Djehuty’s eyes widened, and they lowered their voice to a comical whisper. “He’s not dead, is he? Did you kill him?”

Crawly scoffed. “No, I didn’t kill your dad. Even if I had, I wouldn’t tell you, anyway. Probably.”

“Okay.” Djehuty began walking toward the door. “Bye!”

Crawly lurched forward and caught them by one shoulder. “Wait, hang on. You can’t just go walking out there.”

“Why not?”

“You’re a kid.”

“So?”

She groaned. “Shut up. You can’t.”

“I can. Watch.” Djehuty slipped from her grasp and made for the door.

Crawly snapped her fingers, and the door swung shut.

Djehuty looked back at her. “How’d you do that?”

“Magic.”

“Wow.”

She walked to the door. “All right. I’m going to help you find your dad, okay? And no running off.” She unbarred it with one hand and beckoned.

“Daddy says I shouldn’t go places with strange men.”

Crawly waved a hand, switching herself to look more feminine. The humans could bloody well cope with the veil. “There, not a man. Better?”

Djehuty’s jaw dropped.

“If you stay like that, my boss’ll fly into your mouth and choke you to death.”

They shut their mouth and took her hand. “Your boss sounds mean.”

“Yup.” Crawly pushed the door all the way open and stepped out into the street. No sign of the dad in sight. She knew where he lived, though. That was basic temptation etiquette, as far as she was concerned. 

“I wish I could do that.”

“Do what?”

“Change into a lady.”

Crawly glanced down at them, then back at the road. “Yeah?”

“Or maybe go back and forth. That would be fun. Just being a boy is boring.”

Crawly tamped down a smile that threatened to tug at the corner of her mouth. “I think so, too.”

“I’m glad Daddy bug-red off. I got to meet you.”

Crawly winced. “Don’t—’s not a good word. ‘Buggered,’ I mean. Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Ask your dad.”

“Okay.”

“And, kid?”

“What?”

“You don’t have to be a boy if you don’t want to be.”

“Really?”

“Not at all.”


	248. 1537 BC - Mount Nebo, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for minor character death and violence.

_1537 BC. Mount Nebo, Canaan._

Aziraphale walked slowly down the mountain, keeping a respectful distance from the human mourners. Moses’s death hadn’t been a surprise, of course. He’d always said he wouldn’t quite make it to Canaan. Still. No one had quite been prepared for it. 

No matter. Aziraphale would continue on, as he had always done. The Israelites’ journey wasn’t finished yet, and he still had to guide them. 

Of course, it would be a week before they were ready to continue on. Joshua was a lovely man, but the community would need time to mourn. 

A shiver ran down Aziraphale’s spine, and he turned to look back. The sun was setting over the mountaintop, casting golden light across the sky. It wouldn’t be long before this side was shrouded in darkness.

That wasn’t what he’d sensed, though. No. There was someone here. 

An Angel.

Aziraphale grimaced, looking back to the humans, who hadn’t noticed his hesitation. Whoever it was hadn’t told him they’d be coming, so he ought to go check on them. But the humans might worry if they didn’t see him…

They’d be all right, wouldn’t they? Whatever this other Angel wanted, it was surely important for them to be down here, today of all days. 

He’d have to go find out what was going on. And running wouldn’t be fast enough, that far uphill. 

Aziraphale manifested his wings and gave them a shake before flapping to boost himself into the air. At least these humans, being faithful, wouldn’t notice his little display.

He made much faster time than when he had climbed the mountain before, landing just under a ridge leading to where Moses was buried. There was definitely another Angel here. Perhaps even an Archangel.

With his wings tucked away, he hurried up the mountain, following the tracks they’d left on their way down. 

Around the last bend before he reached the burial site, the sensation of another supernatural presence rippled through the air. This one wasn’t an Angel, though—it was a Demon. And not Crawly. 

It was almost a relief. He wasn’t sure he could cope with an Archangel and Crawly at the same time. Certainly not right now. 

“He’s ours,” a deep voice said.

“No,” said another. That was Michael. 

Aziraphale rounded the bend. “Hello—terribly sorry to interrupt. Might I help you?”

Michael stood at one side of Moses’s grave, a flaming sword in hand, their wings spread. A Demon stood on the other side, in a similarly offensive pose, though their wings, oddly enough, appeared to be a sickly shade of orange. 

Or was it red? Well, _now_ it was red. But Aziraphale was nearly certain it had been orange… how odd. 

“Principality Aziraphale,” Michael said without looking at him. “What are you doing here?”

“These humans are my charges.” Aziraphale clasped his hands in front of him, and surveyed the grave. A sad weight rested in his chest. “I’m afraid there was nothing to be done for him.”

“Done for what?” The Demon’s wings were purple now. They were changing colour. 

Aziraphale gestured to the grave. “Moses. He was a dear old chap. Emphasis on old. What brings you here?”

“I am Ligur, Duke of Hell.” The Demon pulled a spear from who knew where and hit it against the ground. Lightning arced up the shaft, then dissipated to a worrying hum. “The body is mine.”

“Moses was a man of God,” Michael said. “He comes with me.”

“Now, wait just a moment!” Aziraphale held up his hands in what he hoped was a placating gesture, though it was terribly clear that he was the only one here without a weapon. “No one is taking Moses anywhere.”

Michael turned on him, their eyes flashing with cool fury. “Remember your place, Principality.”

Goodness. Aziraphale’s mouth had gone dry. “I mean, it’s not the right thing to do.”

“Of course not,” the Demon spat. “I’m not going to do the _right_ thing.”

Michael glared at the Demon. “I rebuke you, devil.”

“I’m not the Devil,” the Demon said.

“No,” Aziraphale said. “You’re _a_ devil. It’s an important linguistic nuance, which—”

“Why are you here, Principality?” Michael asked. 

Oh. Right. “It’s the humans.” Aziraphale took a deep breath and forced himself to be calm. He was the authority on humans here, after all. Michael had only been to Earth once, to his knowledge, and Crawly hadn’t mentioned any Demons with experience to rival them. “The human. They, er. They consider it a terrible insult to exhume the dead.”

“Bad.” Ligur grinned at Michael, showing far too many teeth. “I’m here to insult your so-called ‘man of God.’ Did your pet Princi—”

“No,” Aziraphale said loudly.

Both Michael and the Demon glared at him. 

Why, oh why had he done that? He could’ve ignored the whole thing and just gone back down the mountain.

Of course, then, Moses would have been exhumed, and that wasn’t right at all…

Drat, he had to say something, didn’t he? “I shan’t let you take him away. So, Demon, since I doubt you fancy facing two Angels at once, I recom— _request_ , humbly—that the two of you take your little spat somewhere else and leave my charges alone.”

Michael was still glaring, but they turned back to Ligur. “Fine.” Holy light shone over the mountaintop, bright enough to blind a human, as Michael took on their Divine form to lunge at the Demon. 

Lightning crackled through the air, lighting a nearby shrub on fire. Then both Michael and the now lizard-shaped Demon toppled over the side of the mountain, locked in combat. 

Aziraphale used a miracle to douse the shrub, then shivered. That had been quite close. 

He edged toward the precipice and peered over. The other two were still fighting. At least they’d had the sense to fall away from the humans. 

Oh dear, the humans. He’d have to stay until the fight was over, though. They’d be awfully worried, the poor dears. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a real part of the Bible that says there was a fight over Moses’s body. Technically, it ought to have been Michael and the Devil/Satan, but bringing literal Satan to Earth for a bit part seemed like overkill in terms of plot, so we get Ligur instead.


	249. 1531 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to cissexism, brief deadnaming, and implied/referenced sexual harassment.

_1531 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Crawly looked up from his work to the door. He’d been working out schematics for a new monument—one he was hoping would be enough of an eyesore to drag on people’s tempers. But someone was knocking. 

He’d half a mind to go out there and scare them off, but he’d been short on temptations. And it seemed marginally likely that he’d been working for the better part of the last week without rest, so it might be time for a change.

They knocked again.

He stood and slunk to the door, then tugged it open. “What?”

“Oh, hi.” It was a human. A familiar-looking one, though he couldn’t quite place them. “Are you… Khural?”

“Yeah. Who’re you?”

“That’s what I’m trying to work out.”

Crawly raised his eyebrows. “I’m really not a good person to talk to if you’re having memory problems. Or general. Mental stuff. Probably quite bad for all that, really.”

“No, I mean…” they sighed. “I know who I am. You’d know me as Djehuty?”

“Oh, right. Yeah. Kid. Sorry about your dad.”

The human narrowed their eyes. “How’d you know about that?”

Blast. He’d watched the payoff of that temptation from afar, hadn’t he? “Ngh… word gets around.”

“It’s been a long time. Can I come in?”

“Why?”

“I just… you said some things to me. When I was a kid. And I wanted to talk to you.”

It would make a decent temptation. Maybe. He could say that, anyway. Hell hadn’t even blinked at his less-then-irreverent reports, so it was looking like he had more leeway than he’d previously thought. “Sure.” He stepped aside. “Come in.”

The human scurried inside and Crawly shut the door to lean against it, looking them up and down. They were dressed a bit oddly, with a sort of… covering-thing over their chest. Not a proper dress top, and not a man’s shawl either. Of course, it was completely the wrong time of year for warm clothes, so a dress was more likely… 

Well. Ought to get on with it. “What’s up?”

“It’s about something you said to me. A long time ago. You remember when my dad left me behind at your shop?”

“Yeah.” Crawly sniffed. “What about it?”

“You said… some things. About gender.”

“Oh, right.” He barely remembered that. “’S a rotten concept, if you ask me. I mean, it’s all just clothes, isn’t it? Wear what you want, be called what you want, and if anyone gives you shit for it, you can just… make them regret it.”

The human’s eyes widened. “You mean it?”

Crawly rolled his eyes. “No, I’m saying potentially controversial stuff to a human and insinuating my approval of hurting people as a joke. Of course I bloody mean it.”

“Oh, good.” The human grinned.

“Why? The little boxes not suiting you?”

“I mean… no, not really.”

“Me either. I’m a man now, by the way.”

The human frowned. “You weren’t before?”

“Nah. Just looked like one because human men can be proper wankers to women in veils.” He paused. “Women in general, really. And I’ve got to wear a veil. My eyes are a bit… unsettling. To some people.”

“Does it… change? A lot?”

“Ehh… it’s done it a few times? Maybe a dozen. Not sure.” And the phases were on the order of decades or centuries, but this human didn’t need to know that. “Look, did you actually need something?”

“Just to talk. Do you change names?”

“No. Just Khural.” Although, he had been thinking that it might not fit anymore. Not quite right. A little too… belittling. He’d run into a Demon last decade who emphasised the associations.

The Demon had found themself quickly and violently discorporated by a human Crawly had been tempting to wrath. 

“Do… do you think I could have another name?”

“If you want.”

“Do you have ideas?”

Crawly blinked once, for the benefit of no one but himself. “Er…”

“It’s fine. I was just thinking, I wanted something that sounded similar but more feminine to use with Djehuty, and you seemed well-read, so—”

“Now, hang on a minute. I didn’t say no.” He crossed his arms, eyeing them critically. “What about Djefatnebti? Or Djefatsen? Djeseretnebti?” He hadn’t heard any of the names in ages, but so what?

“I like Djefatnebti.” The human was fidgeting with their clothes. “And… I noticed… well, I was wondering if you could help me with clothes?”

Crawly rolled his eyes. “You’re pushing your luck here, kid.” 

“Right. Right.”

He sighed. “Fine. Just… don’t tell anyone. And only if you promise me to think you look really good in them, all right? Not helping people with low self-esteem.” And that way, he could mark it down as inspiring Pride.

Djefatnebti’s eyes lit up. 

What had he gotten himself into?


	250. 1516 BC - Kidron Valley, Canaan

_1516 BC. Kidron Valley, Israel, Canaan._

“Aziraphale! Wait, please.”

Aziraphale turned to see a young man hurrying toward him, an empty basket under one arm. He wasn’t especially well-acquainted with the boy, though if he remembered correctly, he was part of the tribe of Asher. Ishvi, perhaps?

The man caught up, face slightly flushed from the run. “Thank you. I thought we could keep one another company.” He held out a hand. “I’m Ishvah.”

Ah. He hadn’t been terribly far off, then. Aziraphale accepted the offered hand shake. “Pleased to meet you, Ishvah. I’d introduce myself, but it seems you already know me.”

“I know _of_ you,” Ishvah said. “Important distinction.”

“Quite.” Aziraphale turned and began climbing the hill again. “What brings you here?”

“Picking olives.” Ishvah stayed close behind him. “What about you?”

“I thought I might do a bit of reading.” Joshua had given him some tablets to translate from Akkadian, since most of the Israelites spoke only Hebrew, or Egyptian for the older ones. “I like the peace on top of the hill.”

“Peace is good for a man,” Ishvah said.

Aziraphale lifted his robes to climb over the trunk of a tree, then reached back to assist Ishvah with his basket. “I’m not really a man.” 

Ishvah took the basket back. “No?”

“I mean, I suppose I am something of one.” He’d been settling into the idea of it lately. He certainly wasn’t a man in the way humans typically meant it, but he was, effectively and practically, a man, insofar as he needed to be to move through the world as he wished.

Ishvah looked at the ground. “Can I ask a personal question?”

“Of course, dear boy.” Aziraphale turned and began walking again.

“Why aren’t you married? I mean, is that… not your thing?”

“No, it isn’t.”

“I don’t like women,” Ishvah blurted.

Aziraphale paused and looked back at him. “Well. I’m glad you’ve sorted that.”

“I like men,” Ishvah said in a smaller voice.

“How lovely.” Aziraphale paused. He really wasn’t sure what to do with this sort of information. Of course, he knew that humans discussed matters of courtship among themselves, but he wasn’t generally involved. “Is there… any particular lad who’s caught your eye?”

Ishvah’s eyes lit up. “Jahleel. He’s… I like him a lot.”

“Well, I hope he’s amenable to wooing.” Aziraphale smiled in what he hoped was a supportive manner. “Now, then. I understand you’re bound for an olive grove? I believe there’s one that way.” He pointed off the path. 

Ishvah looked from his basket the the grove. “Oh, yeah. Thank you, Aziraphale!”

“My pleasure.” 

Aziraphale watched him run off, then gave a pleased sigh, and continued on his way. He had translation to do.


	251. 1510 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied/referenced gender dysphoria and referenced sex.

_1510 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Crawly walked into his house, then stopped short. “What the Heaven are you doing here?”

Djefatnebti smiled at him and shrugged. “I let myself in.”

“I can see that.” Of course they did. That’s what came of teaching random humans how to break and enter. And associating with temptees in general, really. “This is my house.”

“I know.” Djefatnebti sighed, and dropped the cocky posture. “I need your help, but I couldn’t find you.”

“Brilliant,” said Crawly as caustically as he possibly could, and crossed the room to drop his stuff on the table. 

He was not ready for this. He’d just finished up a particularly unpleasant temptation, which had also sapped way too much energy. He’d hoped to go home and sleep. But no, he had to have a human bugging him for favours. “So, what, you figured you’d break into my house?”

“I thought you’d be proud of me.”

Crawly growled. He was _supposed_ to be. But, well. “It’s my bloody house.” He poured himself a cup of wine, exhaling. “Right. Fine. Y’know what? Fine. What.”

“What?”

“What is so important you broke into my house, Djefatnebti?”

They had the decency to look chagrined. “Sorry. It’s… I’m getting married.”

“Yeah, and?”

“I’d like to take you up on the offer you made.”

Crawly set his cup down and leaned forward to rest on the table, then let out a long, creaky groan. Of course they bloody did. Not that there was a problem with that, but he’d forgotten about it until now, and it’d be a nightmare explaining it to Hell if Dagon got wind of it. 

Still. He had said. “Right. And you held up your end of the bargain?” 

Djefatnebti held up a scroll, then tossed it at him.

He caught it and unrolled it. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“Eurgh.” They’d followed through on their end of the bargain, then, judging by what they’d written. Crawly could actually report having tempted somebody to lust for once. All for the price of some body-tweaking. Everybody ended up happy. “I guess that’s it, then.” He rolled the scroll up, set it down, and pushed it to the side. 

He’d have to read it properly for his report to Hell, but for now, some things were better left alone. And maybe read drunk. 

Djefatnebti straightened up, smiling. “I’m ready.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, then picked up a bottle of wine. “Take this.”

They took the bottle with shaking hands. “What’s it for?”

“Wedding present.”

“But—”

“Of course it’s not a wedding present. What d’you think it is?”

“Oh.” They held up the bottle to the light, appraising it. Not that it’d do any good, being made of clay. 

“It’ll do the trick,” Crawly said. “Whatever it is you’re wanting. Poof.” He waved his hands to imitate magic. “Just, wait to drink it a few hours, yeah?”

In all likelihood, he was going to have a massive miracle-hangover as it was. Didn’t need to go around adding good miracles on top of that. 

Or, morally neutral ones. It wasn’t _good_ , giving Djefatnebti what they wanted, since they weren’t a good human. Right? 

Ugh. Who was he fooling, honestly?

“Crawly?”

“Hmm?” He looked up to see Djefatnebti watching him, eyes worried. “Just wait a bit. If you don’t get results in a week, come wake me up.”

They narrowed their eyes at him, then shrugged and turned away. “Sure. Have a good evening.”

“Thanks. Hope your wedding goes well.”

“Oh, it will.” Djefatnebti winked, tapping the bottle. “ _Very_ well.”

Crawly screwed his eyes shut. “I did not need that. I’ve got the scroll, remember?”

Djefatnebti laughed and waved before going out and shutting the door gently. 

Crawly made sure they’d gone, then headed into their room and flopped down on the bed. Talk about a terrible Demon. Honestly. Befriending Angels. Helping humans. 

Still. So long as Hell didn’t find out, it’d all be fine.

He pulled off his veil and rolled over. 

There were benefits of the whole situation, too. Alcohol was good. Humans could be hilarious. Aziraphale. And sleep. 

Sleep sounded pleasant. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omitted tag: #Gender Reassignment Wine.


	252. 1500 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

_1500 BC. Jerusalem, Israel, Canaan_.

Aziraphale shut the door of his house behind him and stepped out into the early morning chill. He stretched, face turned toward the sun where it rose in the east. His body wasn’t yet so argumentative as to necessitate stretching, but the motion was satisfying nonetheless.

Today promised to be quite pleasant. He had a few blessings to take care of in the morning, and was thinking of checking on the woman he’d been guiding in the afternoon. And at nightfall, Shabbat would begin, which he was looking forward to as usual.

Aziraphale began walking toward the centre of town. The city was growing quite quickly these days. It even had walls,* now!

(* The walls were to keep people whom the Israelites had displaced out. Aziraphale did his best not to think about such things, for fear of thinking too much.)

He entered the market and purchased some bread, then began walking toward the edge of the city, where he was hoping to perform a blessing. There wasn’t any rush, though—it was quite early still, the air sweet with the smell of flowers.

A figure outside a house down the road waved to him, and he waved back, though he couldn’t quite make out their features yet. 

“Good morning,” Aziraphale called. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

“Yes, lovely.”

Ah, it was Ishvah. Aziraphale slowed to a stop in front of his house. 

He’d been speaking with Ishvah rather more of late. The poor chap had been turned down by one man after another for simply years. Of course, Aziraphale couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for him, not going in for such things himself, but it seemed awfully unpleasant. 

Thankfully, Ishvah had seemed cheerier of late. Like now, though he had a bit of a distant look in his eyes. 

“How are you, my dear?”

“Yes.” Ishvah smiled. “I’m sorry, I was just… thinking.”

“Really, it’s no trouble.” Aziraphale paused. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Ishvah hesitated and glanced to the side. “Er, yeah, actually. Maybe.”

“Wonderful.” He had a bit of time before he needed to be at his planned blessing, anyway. A bit of assistance on the side couldn’t hurt. 

“It’s not… well.” Ishvah ducked his head, looking up at him from a strange angle. “It’s. I’m kind of… can I show you?”

“I suppose so.”

Ishvah nodded and swallowed, visibly, then stepped closer.

Oh. Dear. “Ishvah…”

He took one of Aziraphale’s hands, then pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek, then stepped back. He didn’t make eye contact.

Aziraphale reached up to touch his cheek. “Oh, my dear boy. I’m terribly sorry.”

“I know, it’s silly.” Ishvah crossed his arms and turned away. “Silly Ishvah, keeps falling in love with men who can’t love him back. I’ll just go.”

Aziraphale reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder, then thought the better of it. “It’s… it’s not you, Ishvah.”

“It never is.”

He sounded terribly hurt.

“I’m not… I don’t _do_ that. I’m an Angel, Ishvah.”

Ishvah turned slowly. “What?”

Drat. He’d said it.

“I am an Angel,” he said again. “Truly.” He held up a palm and summoned up a small ball of holy light, no bigger than a grape. It shone bright even with the sun rising from behind them.

Ishvah’s eyes were wide. He looked back up at Aziraphale. “You… you’re an Angel.”

“I’m sorry. I’d have told you before, if I’d known you were… if I had known you felt that way.”

“Of course you would. Angel.” He laughed almost disbelievingly. “It makes sense.”

“I hope I’ve not hurt you,” Aziraphale said. “There are lots of lovely young men out there who’d be delighted to know you, I’m sure.”

“I’m not a young man anymore.”

“Oh, yes. I suppose not.” Aziraphale sighed. “Well. Will you be all right? I have a blessing I’m meant to do…”

Ishvah nodded once, sharply. “Of course. Go on. I’ll just… it’s a lot to process.” His dark eyes shone with tears. 

“Take your time.” Aziraphale stepped forward and kissed his forehead. “And know that, though I don’t feel love as you do… I love all of God’s creatures. Including you.”

Ishvah made a noise rather like a sob and turned away. “You… go. You can go.”


	253. 1485 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for alcohol use.

_1485 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Crawly collapsed onto a couch in Djefatnebti’s house, nearly but not quite sloshing wine all over himself. “’M not sticking around much longer.”

“What do you mean?” Djefatnebti had drunk considerably less wine than Crawly, presumably in concession to their advanced age.

Crawly was of the opinion that this was cowardly. After all, he was a least twenty five hundred years old, and he wasn’t letting that slow him down. As evidenced by the already-empty bottles stationed in various places around Djefatnebti’s house. 

“I mean.” Crawly leaned forward. “I mean, I’m going back to court.”

“Back to court?”

Crawly took another gulp of wine. “Yeah.” He sniffed. “Bloody lot of… paint.”

“Paint?”

“On the walls. And,” Crawly raised a finger to punctuate his point, “ _and_ — in their eyes. Y’know. All around them. Like so many pandas.”

“Pandas?”

“Big bears.”

“What?”

“Like… lions. But cuddlier. Still aggreg—agrari—fight-y, though. Claws.”

Djefatnebti nodded sagely, an impression only helped by the white in their hair. “I heard they do that in court.”

“Claws?”

“Fighting.”

“Ohh.” Crawly took another sip of water. “You’re right. ’S not why they’re like pandas, though. It’s the eyes. Paint-eyes. Kohl!”

Djefatnebti narrowed their eyes at him. “You wear kohl, don’t you? I’ve heard you say so.”

“Yeah, but it’s different with me.”

“Why?”

Crawly sighed like it was obvious. It would have been obvious, really, if he hadn’t been so drunk. Had to say something, though. “Because… you can’t see my eyes. And I wear it properly, so. There.”

  
“Prove it,” Djefatnebti said. 

“Prove what?”

“That you wear it better.” Djefatnebti crossed their arms. “I can’t see your eyes.”

Oh, Heaven. “Nope.”

“Aww.” They leaned back. “After this long?”

“Yup.” Crawly drained the last of their cup. “B’lieve me, it’s for the best.”

Didn’t want to go around scaring Djefatnebti off after so many successful years. Not about to ruin it now by thinking they’d actually cope with the ‘Demon’ thing.

Djefatnebti laughed. “You’re a funny one.”

“That’s me.” He refilled his cup and sat back again. “Anyway. Yeah. Gonna disappear. Won’t see you again.”

“Why not?”

“New identity. Can’t keep up old connections. Besides, you’ll be dead soon anyway.”

“You’re older than me.”

“Ehh… I mean, yeah, but I’m not going to _die_.” He shuddered. “Even if I left my body, I’d be back, mark my words.”

Djefatnebti sat up straight. “Wait, you’re serious.”

“How d’you mean?”

“About leaving. Going to court.”

Crawly rolled his eyes even though they couldn’t see. “Of course I’m serious. I wasn’t saying it all for my own benefit.”

“I won’t see you again.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s the point.”

“What?”

Blast it all, now he’d offended them. 

Crawly leaned forward. “Look. Djefatnebti. Here’s the thing. I’m just going to keep going on. And on. And on and on and on. But you… won’t. You’ll just stop. Kick the bucket. Snuff it. All that stuff. So. Don’t go blaming me for not wanting to see.”

“What about your other friends?”

“What other friends?”

Djefatnebi blinked. “You… don’t you have other friends?”

Crawly looked away. “No. I mean… one. But he’s not really… he doesn’t count, okay? And he’s not here anyway. And, if he really wanted to visit me—which, trust me, he wouldn’t—he’d find me.”

“Your angel.”

Why did he keep saying that to people? It wasn’t helpful. Not one itty-bitty little buggering bit. Just… made his chest feel tight and his throat close up, and—the flushing sensation had to be the wine, didn’t it?

He dropped his head into his hands and groaned. “Yesss, my angel.”

“I’ll miss you,” Djefatnebti said finally. 

“Not for long.” Crawly sat back again and drank more wine. “Couple years. Twenty, tops.”

“I’m glad to hear you have faith in me.”

“I haven’t got faith in anyone or anything.” 

Djefatnebti’s eyes widened. “What?”

Shit, he’d said that out loud, hadn’t he? Ugh. “Don’t worry about it.”


	254. 1479 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to the Flood.

_1479 BC. Jerusalem, Israel, Canaan._

Aziraphale passed Ishvah a cup of soup and went to sit next to him, cradling his own soup in his hands. “There you are, dear boy. How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better.” Ishvah gave him a wan smile. “Especially my leg. But I’m grateful you came.”

“I couldn’t very well have ignored you.” Aziraphale took a sip of the broth, then sighed happily. Ishvah’s sister had it brought for them, so all Aziraphale had to do was heat it up. 

“I suppose I’m lucky my best friend is an angel, then.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I’ve told you about saying that.” He couldn’t very well have his identity getting out. Certainly not among believers!

“Let an old, injured man have some fun.”

“You will be up and about again quite soon.” Aziraphale huffed. “And if anyone is an ‘old man,’ it’s me. Or it would be, if I were really a man.”

“How long have you been here?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

Ishvah pouted.

“I can’t.”

“Since before Egypt, right?”

Aziraphale sighed and took another sip of broth. 

“Before Abraham?”

“Really, this line of inquiry is completely pointless.”

“Before… the _Flood_?”

Aziraphale swallowed at that and looked away.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite all right.” He took a deep breath, then exhaled. Ishvah didn’t mean anything by it, really. The Flood was a very, very long time ago now. No one else remembered it who’d been on Earth at the time. 

Or, no one else but Crawly.

Aziraphale took another sip of broth. “No matter. Is the broth all right? I can’t help but notice that you don’t appear to have touched it.”

Ishvah chuckled and held his cup out. “I don’t want it. You go on.”

“No, no. It’s for you. You’re the one who injured your leg, after all. I’m just here to take care of you.”

“You have it, angel. I want you to.”

Aziraphale’s breath caught. He’d heard someone say ‘angel’ to him like that before. In Waset, back when—

Oh. Oh, dear. There was quite a lot of emotion in his chest, wasn’t there? Poor Ishvah didn’t need any of that. Better tuck it away. 

Aziraphale shook himself once and straightened up to accept the broth. “Thank you very much.”


	255. 1467 BC - Waset, Egypt

1467 BC. Waset, Egypt.

Crawly sat up from where he’d been reclining in a side chamber of the palace. He could hear humans chattering somewhere else. Probably the main hall. 

And he could smell something, too. He flicked his tongue out, tasting the air. It was one of those perfumes made from tree guts the humans liked so much. Frankincense, maybe? Or the other one. Myrrh. He hadn’t learned to tell them apart yet.

Either way, he should probably get back to court. He’d been hoping for a nap, but the world was evidently out to get him. 

Oh, well. Maybe he could convince a human to steal the stuff. Though they’d almost certainly get caught if he did; if he remembered correctly, the sap was both sticky and potent enough that anyone who tried to steal it would stink up whatever room was unfortunate enough to have them in it.

He swung his legs onto the ground and stood, brushing off his kilt and adjusting the collar around his shoulders. He’d had it made specially from red gemstones and silver. Gold and lapis lazuli were nice and all, but very much not his colour.

The smell was coming from the main hall. Really strong, too. Eye-wateringly so. For people whose eyes had the audacity to water, anyway, which Crawly’s didn’t. 

“Lord Khural,” a minor official said as he entered. “The delegation from Punt’s arrived.”

“Have they now?” Crawly peered over the heads of the crowded officials and nobles. The main part of the hall appeared to be dominated by thirty-odd small trees. “Why’d they bring plants? We’ve got plants here.”

“Myrrh trees,” the human said reverently.

“Right.” Good to get that sorted before he said the wrong one to a human. “How’d they get them here?”

The human shrugged. 

Crawly rolled his eyes. He’d just have to get closer. 

He began shouldering his way through the humans, making vaguely apologetic noises which didn’t actually soothe anyone’s feelings. He may have stepped on someone’s foot, too, which was definitely deliberate, ta very much. 

On the other side of the human glut, he emerged next to one of the trees. The rest of them obscured him from the Pharaoh, luckily, so he should be safe from her trying to have him executed. 

The trees, for their part, looked miserable. Having all of one’s roots stuffed in a basket couldn’t be comfortable. Or being transported this far north on a boat, for that matter.

Someone grabbed his arm and he hissed at them, before registering their face. “Oh, it’s you.”

One of his political temptees rolled his eyes. “Yes, it’s me. What do you think you’re doing?” 

Crawly growled, but allowed the human to tug him back into the crowd. He’d be back later to have a chat with the gardeners. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to Wikipedia, Pharaoh Hatshepsut apparently sent a trade delegation to Punt who brought back 31 myrrh trees.


	256. 1457 - Megiddo, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence, blood, murder, and minor character death.

_1457 BC. Megiddo, Israel, Canaan_.

Aziraphale squeezed the boy’s hand, then folded it across his chest and sat back on his haunches, head bowed, breathing raggedly. The battle carried on around them. No one had much time for one dead boy, and half of them, being Israelites, were inclined to ignore Aziraphale when he willed it. 

An arrow swished through the air and embedded itself in the dirt just left of his thigh. Aziraphale pried it out of the ground and crushed the shaft in one hand. The splinters didn’t dare harm him, and fell into dust.

The poor boy hadn’t wanted to come here. Aziraphale hadn’t learned his name, either. There were simply too many humans fighting this time to learn all of them. 

He waved his hand and the boy’s body vanished, safely back in the city walls where he could be buried properly. 

Goodness, Aziraphale’s body was acting up rather a lot, wasn’t it? There were tears on his face. And more sensations besides, but he was making a point of ignoring those.

“What’s this?” A strange voice asked.

Aziraphale turned. A woman-shaped being stood behind him, dressed in scarlet armour. 

“I didn’t think I’d see an Angel here.” War grinned at him. There was blood between the cracks in her teeth. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Certainly not,” Aziraphale said. “I suppose you are?”

“Of course.” She tilted her head back and sighed in apparent ecstasy. “So much pain. Carnage. Bloodshed.”

“Quite.” Aziraphale looked at the ground.

War giggled and leaned closer. “Do you… have a sword?”

He looked back up at her. “Not with me. And even if I did, I would not give it to the likes of you.”

“What a shame. I had an Angel’s sword for a few centuries… a millennium ago, now.”

What an awful idea. War with an Angel’s sword. 

“A Demon gave me a tip-off,” War added.

“How lovely.”

“Mmm.” 

An arrow appeared in the dirt at her foot and she pulled it out again. The arrowhead glinted in the sunlight as she inspected it, one pointed fingernail stroking the fletching. 

“You know,” she said casually, “I’ve heard that the End of Times will begin here.”

A chill ran down Aziraphale’s spine. “What? Now?”

She laughed. “In four and a half millennia.”

“Oh. Good.”

War threw the arrow back into the melee with supernatural strength. There was a horrid flop as a human fell into the dirt. 

Aziraphale swallowed and looked away. “Would you please leave these people alone?”

“Aww, sweetie.” She shook her head. “Of course not. I’m just getting started.”

“Ah.” It had been worth a try. Hadn’t it?

“Good luck with the siege, Principality.” War picked a knife up off the ground and began walking away. “You’ll need it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was an actual battle outside the Canaanite city of Megiddo in 1457 BC! (According to the Middle Chronology, anyway.) The Egyptians, led by Thutmose III, successor to Hatshepsut, attacked a group of Canaanite states. The Canaanites lost the battle and were forced into a seven-month siege, ultimately surrendering.  
> The main inaccuracy here that I’m aware of is that Israel didn’t exist yet. However, to stay in line with the Biblical chronology I’m using—and for plot—it made sense to make Megiddo part of Israel. Such is the plight of one crossing scripture, history, and fiction.


	257. 1447 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for referenced adultery.

_1447 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Crawly swaggered down the steps of an Egyptian noble’s home and set off toward the market, whistling. His temptation was going well enough. The noble was having an affair with his political rival. If Crawly played his card right, he could have the whole court at one another’s figurative throats. 

He had a gossip-monger lined up and everything. 

The temptation wasn’t the only factor in his mood, though. His angel was back in the city. Crawly sensed him when he woke up in the morning. 

Which was where he was going now. It had been more than a century since Aziraphale left. 

Crawly stopped in the middle of the street. He hadn’t considered what he’d say about the incident last time they saw one another. If he was being honest, he’d sort of… blocked the whole thing out. 

A human driving a herd of sheep came around the corner, heading straight for him. 

Crawly hurried to the side of the road and stopped again. 

Blast it all. 

What if Aziraphale brought it up? Crawly’d been acting… like a _friend_. Just like he’d said he wouldn’t when he returned from Babylonia. He’d _hugged_ him. And said _things_. 

Maybe he’d get lucky. Maybe Aziraphale wouldn’t mention* it. 

(* Crawly could, at any point during this process, have elected not to go find Aziraphale. Crawly chose to disregard this.)

Only one way to find out, though. 

The shepherd had turned the corner, so Crawly jogged toward the marketplace. When he arrived, the place was bustling—full of merchants and pickpockets and people with too much money and not enough sense. 

Aziraphale wasn’t hard to find, thankfully—white curls caught the sun from the opposite side of the thoroughfare. And Crawly would recognize the feeling of his particular divinity anywhere.

He wove around the humans and drew up behind Aziraphale quietly to lean against the stall over him. “Hello, angel.”

Aziraphale started and raised his hands as though he was going to shove Crawly like he had that time in two hundred years ago, but his brown eyes flickered with recognition at the last moment, and he held back. 

Crawly found himself slightly, disconcertingly disappointed. 

“Really. I’d have thought you knew better than to ambush me after all this time.” Aziraphale averted his eyes. “What exactly are you doing here?”

“Came to say hi.”

“Is that all?”

“Yeah.” Crawly tilted his head. “Why, would you prefer I had some other purpose? I could think of something. Stop a blessing. Perform a temptation.”

Aziraphale looked at him again and scowled. “Of course I don’t want that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.” He brushed past Crawly and began walking away with an air of decisiveness.

Crawly turned and opened his mouth to protest, but Aziraphale was gone. 

The wake of a miracle washed over him, and he swallowed.

He’d thought that Aziraphale bringing up the incident after the Plagues would be a problem. So this was good, for him. Right? Desirable, anyway. 

So why did he feel disappointed?


	258. 1444 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of antisemitism.

_1444 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Aziraphale moved closer to the door of his house, a knife in one hand. He’d had some unpleasantness recently with Egyptians who didn’t like having an Israelite in their neighbourhood. He didn’t relish the idea of resorting to violence, of course. But needs must. 

He flung open the door, brandishing his knife at—

“Crawly.” He lowered it. “Get inside before someone sees you.”

Crawly lowered his hands from where they’d been in a gesture of surrender. “Good grief, Aziraphale. You nearly impaled me.”

“Ah, but I didn’t.”

“Nhh.” 

Aziraphale stepped aside so the Demon could enter, then set the knife gingerly on his table. “What are you doing here now?”

“Just thought I’d say hi.” Crawly bent over Aziraphale work table, brushing gentle fingers over a scroll as he pulled off his veil with the other hand.

“That’s exactly what you said last time.” Aziraphale slapped Crawly’s hand away from his scrolls. “Those are delicate.”

Crawly raised an eyebrow at him, rubbing his wrist. “Feeling violent, are we? Wee bit tetchy?”

“I am acting as I always do,” said Aziraphale, tetchily. 

“Right.” 

“Be quiet, Crawly.”

“I didn’t say anything!” 

Aziraphale huffed and looked despairingly at the ceiling, then back to Crawly. “I suppose there’s nothing I can do to persuade you to leave?”

“Nope.” Crawly grinned at him. “I mean, unless you really _want_ me to go.” He paused, expression slightly more serious. “Because I can go. If you ask again.”

Aziraphale looked away. “I suppose I’ll have to put up with you, then.”

“Oh, is that how it is?”

Aziraphale glared at him. 

“How’s the settling in, then?” Crawly strolled away from the table to examine the rest of the furnishings in Aziraphale’s house, which weren’t many. “You still look like an Israelite, by the way.”

“I was aware.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers.

Crawly squeaked and jerked his hand away from Aziraphale’s favourite vase, which he’d been touching. “Oi! What was that for? Did you just _bless_ it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Liar.”

“I simply haven’t the foggiest.”

Crawly gave him an exasperated look, then dropped onto a seat. “Really, though. Are the Egyptians giving you trouble? Because I could take care of that.”

“I can handle them perfectly well myself.”

Crawly’s expression changed to something unreadable. “Yeah. Yeah, you can.”

Goodness. 

Aziraphale turned and picked up a jug of wine that hadn’t been there a moment earlier off the table, then fetched a pair of cups. “For the record,” he said as he poured, “I am dressing like this on purpose. The Egyptians here are in sore need of open-mindedness. I have an opportunity to change their minds, and I can’t be hurt.”

“Yeah, but it makes you a target.”

Aziraphale turned and went to sit opposite Crawly, offering him a cup of wine. “I will remind you that, of the two of us, only one has been discorporated.”

Crawly’s jaw dropped. “Ngh. That’s just rude.”

“I’m simply stating a fact.”

“Just a fact, my arse.”

Aziraphale coughed delicately. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Never mind.” Crawly took a hearty drink of wine, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So, let me get this straight. You’re convincing the Egyptians to respect Israelites… by looking like a Israelite and beating them up?”

Aziraphale set his cup down. “I am not ‘beating them up.’ I am delicately and precisely persuading them of the error of their ways.”

“Delicately. Really.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. Truth be told, he was persuading them less forcefully than had been strictly recommended. “Yes, really.”

Crawly shrugged. “If you say so.”


	259. 1429 BC - Waset, Egypt

_1429 BC. Waset, Egypt_.

Crawly walked as casually as he could down a hall of the palace. He’d considered whistling to really impress upon anyone who happened by that he really was at ease, but decided against it in case the noise caused someone to happen by. 

The thing was, he wasn’t really supposed to be doing… what he was doing. Not by human standards, anyway. By Demonic ones, sure, but they weren’t the ones here. He didn’t fancy being discorporated. 

The sound of a laugh echoed down the corridor, and Crawly froze.

It wasn’t a problem. Whoever they were, they weren’t coming this way. Most of the court was off battling someplace, anyway. 

Crawly shook himself. “Get a grip. Big, bad Demon. Original sin.” He straightened up, then thought the better of it and slouched again. 

He had one task here. Or, not task. Goal. Objective.

The door to the records room was slightly ajar. Not quite wide enough for a human, but for a snake… Crawly shifted to his serpent form and slithered through, then returned to his usual form. He brushed off his chest and kilt with one hand, shuddering. Crawling around on his belly got less and less pleasant over time. 

Anyway. 

There were a few workspaces for scribes, none of whom seemed to be in. He’d timed it well. So. Time to do the deed. 

Scrolls littered most surfaces in the room. Or, not littered. Most were quite orderly, really. Except for the table in the centre of the room, which was loaded with what had to be a few decades worth of records.

Crawly grinned and slunk to the table, unrolling one to skim it. It was a report on taxes from a few decades back, during the reign of Pharaoh Hatshepsut. Perfect.

He stepped back and surveyed the scrolls, then snapped his fingers. They vanished. 

They’d all be safe, though, back in his house. Not that he’d keep them there long. No, he had another destination in mind for them. 

See, the thing was, he’d made the mistake of mentioning the plan to excise Hatshepsut from the records to Aziraphale. The angel had touched a hand to his chest and made such a disappointed expression… well, it turned Crawly’s stomach. 

And, more to the point, he’d known that it was a pressure point. He was going to bribe Aziraphale with the scrolls. Bribe him to do what, he hadn’t quite worked out. But it would be something truly diabolical. 

Crawly stepped back from the table and slithered out the door again. He had a few more things to take care of here, but that shouldn’t take too long.

After all, he had a delivery to make. 


	260. 1421 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for alcohol use.

_1421 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Aziraphale took a draught of wine, then set it down sloppily. “I thought you didn’t talk to humans anymore?”

“Of course I talk to humans.” Crawly was slung over Aziraphale’s sofa, dangling halfway off, his veil and wig discarded somewhere on the other side of the room. “I can’t tempt them if I don’t _talk_ to them. Kind of silly idea’s that?”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Aziraphale looked down and began trying to smooth the pleats of his kilt. “I mean. You know what I mean, you fiend.”

Crawly grinned at him. “Humour me.”

“I mean,” he said slowly, “talking to them in… a non-professional capacity.”

“Right.” Crawly sniffed, then shifted to a slightly more upright position—‘slightly’ in this case meaning ‘horizontal.’ “I try not to. But you know how it is. Talk to them for a year and suddenly they think you’re best mates.”

Aziraphale grimaced. “Or worse.”

“How d’you mean, ‘worse?’ What’s worse than a human thinking you’re best mates?”

Drat, he’d said too much, hadn’t he? He probably ought to sober up. He didn’t want to, though. His head was delightfully swimmy and he felt quite warm and tingly. Being sober now sounded like— “Crawly?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s the thing when you’re drunk and sobering up would… murder the bees?”

Crawly, who’d just taken a sip of wine, sat up onto his elbows and started coughing.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and he stopped coughing.

Crawly glanced at him and massaged his throat for a moment. “Thanks. ‘ _Murder the bees_?’”

“Or perhaps it would be a murder _of_ bees?”

“That’s crows, angel.”

“Flies, perhaps?”

“I have no idea what you’re getting at.”

“Cicadas?”

“What’s worse than a human thinking you’re friends, Aziraphale?”

“A killed buzz.” Aziraphale smiled and took a sip of his wine. He’d heard a young human use the phrase the other day.

“A buzzkill?”

“That’s it.”

Crawly sighed. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“I’m sure you don’t mean that.” Aziraphale sighed. “And falling in love with you.”

Crawly sat up in a flurry of angular limbs. “ _What_ _?_ ”

“It’s worse than a human thinking you’re friends. A human falling in love with you.”

“Oh. Right.” Crawly blinked. “Did that happen?”

“Yes, sadly. A boy named Ishvah.”

“You didn’t—?”

“I didn’t what?”

Crawly glanced to the side. “You know.”

“I’m sure I don’t.”

“You didn’t… recip—proci—give him what he wanted?”

Aziraphale gasped. “I most certainly did not.”

“Right. Good.” Crawly sat back, arms crossed. 

“It was awfully sad.” He’d caught Ishvah looking at him sometimes, and he’d wished he could fix it for him. But, of course… Angels weren’t meant to feel things that way.

“I bet it was.”

Crawly had sunk back into a reclining position, and was scowling at the ceiling. Perhaps, being a Demon, he didn’t like hearing about love. 

“Really, Crawly, you could at least try to be sympathetic.”

“Why the Heaven should I?” He was studiously avoiding eye contact. “So his crush didn’t like him back. Big deal. It’s his own fault for falling in love with somebody who couldn’t like him back.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Well, if that’s how you feel about it…”

“It is.”

“Why don’t you get us some more wine?”

Crawly lurched up. “Fine.”

Aziraphale sighed and watched him walk away. What a strange opinion. Perhaps it had something to do with the Fall? Crawly hadn’t really spoken to him about that, so it would make some sense.

“Aziraphale? You okay?”

He glanced up to see Crawly standing over him with the jug of wine. “Oh, yes. Absolutely.” He handed him his cup.

Crawly took it and poured the wine, then handed it back to him with one eyebrow raised suspiciously. “Don’t look it.”

“I assure you, I am perfectly well.” Aziraphale took a sip of the wine. “Why don’t you tell me more about this… Djefatnebti, was it?”


	261. 1408 BC - Waset, Egypt

_1408 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Crawly checked over his shoulder, then ran down the street in the other direction. He didn’t have any actual reason to think he was being followed—not any more than usual, anyway—but it didn’t hurt to be careful, especially considering where he was going. 

He snapped his fingers to unbolt the door when he was a few doors down. He burst through, then shut it behind him, panting. 

“Really, Crawly, must you be so dramatic? I spilled ink all over my work!”

Crawly waved a hand and the ink found itself back in its bottle.

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked at him suspiciously. “What are you doing here?”

Crawly leaned against the door and looked to the ceiling. Why had he thought this was a good idea? Bloody brilliant he was, going straight to his angel the second something went wrong.

“Crawly?” Aziraphale stood from his work. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” Crawly pulled his veil off to make eye contact with him, then looked away again. “I mean, yes, but not that you need to worry about.”

“Is it—?” Aziraphale made a strange, twitchy expression.

“What?”

He did the thing again.

“What does—” Crawly mimicked it— “mean?”

Aziraphale stomped his foot. “Downstairs, Crawly. Your _employers_.”

“Oh. You mean Hell.”

He shushed him. “Not so loud!”

“They’re not listening, angel. Never are.” He sighed, studying a pair of sandals on the floor he assumed belonged to Aziraphale. “But yeah, it’s them. I’ve got a new assignment. I know last time, I didn’t say good-bye, except for the note, so—”

“Yes, you did.”

Crawly’s gaze snapped back up to Aziraphale.

Right. The last time they separated. After the final Plague… Crawly still wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking.

Aziraphale looked away first. “A new assignment?”

“Yeah.” Crawly coughed and shook his head. Things not to think about. He’d made it more than a hundred and fifty years not thinking about it, and he wasn’t about to start now. “Stirring up unrest in the north. Something about the ocean, I think.”

“It’s probably best if you don’t tell me about it.” Aziraphale turned and began rifling through the scrolls on his desk. “You know, it’s a very odd thing.”

“What is?”

“I had an anonymous delivery of scrolls a few months ago. All from Hatshepsut’s reign.”

Because _that_ was a better conversation topic. Crawly had a strong urge to turn around and start railing at God and whatever She’d done to put him in this position, but resisted it. Probably not the best move in present company.

“Weird,” he managed. 

“I know.” Aziraphale had gathered a handful of scrolls in his arms and turned around to face him again. “What was it you wanted to say?”

And now he was _staring_ at him with those bloody—blasted—dark eyes. Almost like he trusted him. 

Fuck.

“I’m going.” Crawly unbolted the door with one fumbling hand behind him. “Couple decades, at the least.”

“I see.” Aziraphale straightened up even more. 

How’d he do that? He stood totally straight, constantly. It looked almost painful. 

“Bye, then.” Crawly waved, then pulled the door open. “Yeah. Have a nice… century.”

“And you.” Aziraphale made eye contact again. “Or, er. Have a bad century?”

Crawly laughed. “Yeah, there you go. Thanks.”

He stepped out with a wave, then shut the door behind him and bolted it again with a snap of his fingers, then began running away. That was… a thing.


	262. 1403 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of xenophobia.

_1403 BC. Waset, Egypt_.

Aziraphale examined a selection of fresh dates. This vendor had served him well in the past, but the last time he bought from them, the dates hadn’t been as succulent as he’d come to expect. He didn’t fancy going through that again.

Though really, at least it wasn’t mana. He’d had enough mana for a lifetime. Or even however many hundreds of lifetimes he would have in the end. 

“Azherafel?”

He turned to see a young human in a kilt, watching him with… drat, was that admiration? “I am he.”

The human nodded quickly. “Good. I’d feel really awkward right now if you weren’t.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, they’re right. Your hair is… distinctive.”

“Who was right?”

“Just people around the city.” The human sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Ah, I screwed it up again, didn’t it?”

“Again?” Aziraphale began edging away from the fruit stall. Whatever this might be, he didn’t need to take away from the vendor’s business.

The human followed him. “My name is Pawura. I’ve been looking for a mentor. Someone off the beaten path. Someone said you were wise.”

“I’m flattered, but I’m not a scholar.” Though it might count as guidance, mightn’t it?

“You’re a scribe.”

“Yes, but not a scholar.” He sighed. “I suppose I might have some unusual skill sets, but I assure you, there are people who could serve you much better in such a role.”

“I’ve talked to them.” Pawura sighed and looked down. “They won’t teach me.”

Aziraphale stopped walking. “Whyever not?”

“This is why I want you to teach me.” Pawura made eye contact with him. “My mother is Kushite. And the Pharaoh isn’t… fond of us. You’re an Israelite, right?”

“Of sorts.” It was odd, no longer being identified as Sumerian. Then again, Sumer wasn’t what it once was. “They won’t teach you because of the Pharaoh’s prejudices?”

Pawura shook his head. “They don’t want to get on his bad side.”

“Well.” Aziraphale turned back to face him and held out a hand. “We wouldn’t want that to stop an enterprising young man such as yourself, would we? I’ll do what I can.”

Pawura took his hand, eyes wide. “Really?”

“Indubitably.” Aziraphale smiled gently, and shook his hand, then let go. “We non-Egyptians have to stick together, haven’t we?”

Pawura laughed. “I guess so.”

“And,” said Aziraphale conspiratorially, “I believe I may have access to some documents you won’t find anywhere else.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve been collecting for quite some time.”

“That’s so cool.” The boy’s eyes had lit up, and he was standing a little taller now. 

Aziraphale patted his shoulder gently. This would be a lovely guidance. “Why don’t you come back to my workplace, and I’ll show you?”


	263. 1386 BC - Byblos, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to domestic abuse.

_1386 BC. Byblos, Egyptian Empire, Canaan._

Crawly sauntered down the beach, the wind blowing his braids back from his face. Wind was a bit of a nuisance for his veil, but there wasn’t much to be done there. And he couldn’t have these humans seeing his eyes. Discorporation by drowning sounded deeply unpleasant.

“Crawly!” One of his new comrades, a man named Piyamaradu, waved from where he stood next to one of the half-grounded ships, then jumped down into the sand. “Hiya.”

“Hey.” Crawly made a gesture of greeting as he approached them, sidling up to the ship and running a hand over the boards. “Going well?”

Piyamaradu shrugged. “We’re still going to need the pitch.”

“Pity.” He wiped his hand on his tunic and turned to look down the beach, where more humans were caring for half a dozen other boats. “Are Arishat and Nakht back yet?”

Piyamaradu shook his head.

“Right.” They’d run into a spot of trouble the previous week with some storms and had to land to make repairs. Unfortunately, the Egyptian government weren’t exactly their biggest fans, so getting resources took… creativity. 

The group wasn’t very big yet—just six boats with a ragtag group of sailors and outcasts from all around the Mediterranean. In their little boat crew alone, they had folks from four different places. Piyamaradu was from Hattusa, on the run because he stole to feed his little siblings when he was a kid. Arishat was from someplace called Tyre, fleeing a violent husband. Nakht was from Abydos… Crawly wasn’t sure what they were running from, and didn’t really want to know. And Crawly, for his part, was more or less from Waset.

Their boat was the smallest, too. The biggest had twenty people. And the group as whole just kept growing. Slowly, sure, but Crawly had instructions to make sure they kept going. And it wasn’t the most unpleasant of jobs. He hadn’t seen this many humans from different places getting along since… well, since Babel. 

Granted, they all spoke Egyptian, which was… not ideal, considering the associations most of them had with the place, but hey. It was a Heaven of a lot easier than playing translator all the time. And the general dislike of Egypt was a unifying factor.

“Crawly, wake up, you bastard.”

He blinked. “I wasn’t asleep. Just thinking.”

Piyamaradu laughed. “For once.”

“I don’t sleep _that_ much!”

“Three days, mate.”

Crawly rolled his eyes theatrically enough to hopefully convey the gesture through his veil. 

“You like your beauty sleep.”

He glared at him. “Oi. Take that back.”

Piyamaradu raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just teasing.”

“You watch it.” Crawly turned away, cocking his head. “You hear that?”

“It’s Arishat and Nakht.” Piyamaradu looked past him to wave at their friends.

Arishat hefted a large sack of spoils, grinning as she approached. “What up, losers?”

Crawly sighed and leaned against the hull of the boat as Piyamaradu gave her a hearty hug. Nakht gave him a friendly nod, which he returned. 

Arishat let go of Piyamaradu and moved in on Crawly. 

He let her hug him. It had only taken two months after she arrived before he realized it was a lost cause. Besides, it was encouraging humans to trust him, wasn’t it? And the more positive the environment in the group was, the more likely people would join, and that was his job, so. It was practically work.

Crawly stepped back as soon as she let him go and brushed off his tunic. “You got it?”

“Oh, yeah.” She winked. “You want to carry it?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

She laughed. “I should’ve known. Gimme a sec and I’ll be back.”

“Right.”

She swung the sack over one shoulder and climbed into the ship one handed, then disappeared.

Though Crawly was technically a bit stronger than most humans, he’d let them think he was as scrawny as he looked. Kept him out of most of the menial labour, too. Arishat had a lot of pride in her strength, anyway, and that was a sin, so. 

All things considered, as Hellish assignments went, this one wasn’t too bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crawly’s new gang are intended to be the Sea People, who rose to infamy closer to the 1200-1100’s when they kept raiding Egypt. I couldn’t find a scholarly consensus on their origin, though, so I’ve made them a sort of rag-tag pirate-inspired group working against Egyptian imperialism.


	264. 1382 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for alcohol as a coping mechanism, panic attack (trauma-related), description of blood, implied emotional abuse (Heaven), and references to past mass-murder.

_1382 BC. Waset, Egypt_.

Aziraphale shrugged. “I’ve never really considered anything else. Of course, I respect people’s choice to worship other gods, but… it’s never appealed to me.”

Pawura nodded slowly. “Just the one?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” He took a sip of his beer, then tilted his head, apparently deep in thought. “Why?”

Aziraphale chuckled nervously. “It’s not an option. My… family is quite committed. As am I.”

He hadn’t meant to get into this conversation. Though, really, it shouldn’t have been a surprise. Pawura’s studies had gone splendidly, and he’d soon begun questioning things, as humans were wont to do. The trouble was, Aziraphale couldn’t.

Aziraphale sat up straighter. Best change the subject. That would do nicely. Oh dear, he was a bit tipsy, wasn’t he? No matter. “How is your new post?”

“It’s all right.” Pawura looked down. “It’s not ideal, but there’s not much to be done there.”

He tutted sympathetically.

“Actually, we’ve been looking into history,” Pawura said. “Do you know anything about when the Israelites left?”

Aziraphale inhaled sharply and laced his fingers together in his lap. “What did—” he cleared his throat. “What did you need to know, dear boy?”

“Well, I know you know some weird things.” Pawura shrugged. “It’s not very well-documented here, since the Egyptians are ashamed of it. So… I heard there were plagues?”

“Quite.” He could speak about this, couldn’t he? It had been nearly two hundred years, for goodness’ sake.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “Plagues. Quite right. Ten of them. Let’s see, er. The Nile turned to blood. Terribly unpleasant.” He could still recall the smell of it, the way it caked in the rushes. “Then there were, er. Frogs. Quite a lot of them.” He hadn’t understood that one at first. “Then small, bitey things. They may have been lice, but we—er, the people there didn’t quite ever agree. Then flies. A plague on the livestock. Boils, on the humans.” There’d been nothing he could do for them. 

Goodness, his chest was tight. Had he stopped breathing? He took a deep shuddering breath. 

“Then ice, and fire. In a storm. So much destruction, and nowhere to go. Locusts. And then the darkness. For three full days, no light. None at all.”

“Azherafel.” Pawura was next to him now, one steadying hand on his leg. “Are you all right?”

Oh dear. He had to get himself back under control. 

“Quite all right.” Aziraphale managed a small smile. “Just tip-top. The last one was death, by the way. All the first-born children!” He laughed, though the sound was high in his throat. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think—I’m under strict instructions not to, er. Address all that.”

“Instructions? From whom?”

“Just an… well. Nobody.” Aziraphale reached to the side and picked up a cup of alcohol that hadn’t been there before. He took one sip, then set it down again. 

Avoiding thinking their name didn’t rid him of the phantom sensation of arms around him, a whisper in his ear telling him not to question. Not to Fall. “They helped me. Not that they were supposed to. But… well, they cared for me. It’s quite likely…”

“Likely what?” Pawura moved the cup out of his reach. “Azherafel, I think you need to chill out.”

Quite likely they’d saved him. 

Oh, dear. 

What did that—not questioning. 

“I think you’re right.” He took another steadying breath, then collected his thoughts on the matter and tucked them away. Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. Nothing was wrong. He was an Angel. 

He focused on Pawura. “Now. Why don’t you tell me about your new beau, hmm?”


	265. 1373 BC - Mediterranean Sea

_1373 BC. Mediterranean Sea_.

Crawly lay on the deck, staring up at the sky. Piyamaradu, Nakht, and the newer sailors had gone to bed. Arishat was still up here, though. He could hear her snoring gently. 

She was getting older now. All of them were. As humans did. 

Satan, how much had he had? He’d gone all maudlin. 

Never mind. He wasn’t too drunk until he started thinking about his angel. 

A cloud drifted away from the patch of sky above him, revealing the stars. One of them was familiar. He couldn’t remember the name, anymore, but he remembered how it glowed when they lit it, and he remembered the feeling in his chest. Pride and love, searing and beautiful, fit to burst. 

He closed his eyes and exhaled.

Maybe this was worse than thinking about the angel, after all. 

It wasn’t his fault, anyway. He had to remember that. It hadn’t been right. He knew that. “I wasn’t wrong,” he whispered. “Didn’t even say anythin’. Just asked.” 

And goodness knew—yeah, he meant goodness, smite him—She did things worth questioning. Even setting aside the business with Earth, which She didn’t deserve, what She’d been doing to the other Angels was wrong. 

Cruel. 

He’d Fallen for it. 

“Y’know what you didn’t have to do,” he said. “Didn’t have to take m’name.” 

He couldn’t remember it anymore. He could feel the hollow where it’d gone, but he couldn’t remember anything besides ‘Crawly’ now.

“Crawly’s a rotten old name. I’ve got legs, y’know. I’m not crawling. Not for anybody.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Definitely not for you.”

“Change it.”

He started up onto his elbows, until he caught sight of Arishat, leaning against the barrel where she’d fallen asleep. Her eyes were still shut. 

Sometimes it hurt when humans trusted him like that. He pulled his veil back down over his eyes. 

“I can’t,” he said. 

“Coward. Isn’t that giving up?”

He leaned back down and looked back at the sky. “I dunno. Thought if I took ‘Crawly’ and made it my own, I could show Her it doesn’t matter what She did to me.”

“Who is she?”

He scoffed. “Don’t you dare worry about that.”

“It sounds like she hurt you, man. Why not change it? Big old fuck-you to mum.”

“Not my mum.” Not really, anyway. Not the way humans meant it. “But… I guess it couldn’t hurt. ‘Crawly’ isn’t doing it.”

“What about… Philosir? Zimrida?”

He shook his head. “Too different. I’ve had this one awhile.”

“Crashtzaph?”

“You’re not even trying.”

“Crelly? Krilly? Crawny?”

He summoned a pebble and threw it at her.

She ducked, laughing. 

“Craal? Crowley? Crostly?”

“ _Crostly_. That sounds ridiculous.” He sighed and propped his head up on his forearm behind his head. A meteor shot by. 

Maybe he’d had this name too long, and he’d be stuck with it. Just another insult to add to his list of grievances over the Fall. 

Although. “Crowley’s not half bad.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Think I could get used to it. _Crowley_.”

“Suits you.”

Crowley grinned. “Better than Crawly.” The name rolled over his tongue, the vowels confident with just enough edge.

“Doesn’t make you any less of a loser.” 

He threw another pebble at her. “Don’t you dare tell any of the others about this, either. I’ll tell them myself in the morning.”

“’Course.” Arishat heaved herself up to her feet. “I’m going below. You’ll keep watch?”

“Yeah.”

She threw her wadded-up blanket at him.

Crowley pulled it off his face. “Oi, what was that for?”

“Hate for you to freeze overnight.” She began climbing down into the boat.

“G’night.”

“Night, Crowley.”

He waited until she was well and truly out of sight, then wrapped himself in the blanket. He pulled off his veil and wadded it up for a pillow to look up at the stars again. Then he smiled. 


	266. 1357 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for illness and minor character death.

_1357 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Aziraphale used one hand to feel Pawura’s forehead, the other clutching his hand. He was hot and feverish, though sleeping more soundly now than he had been in hours.

“Is he going to survive?” Pawura’s wife, Maia, worried her lip with her teeth.

Aziraphale released his hand and swallowed once, then exhaled. He’d seen this before. Many times. And there was nothing he was allowed to do. 

He shook his head.

Maia covered her mouth with one hand and keened, shoulders shaking. 

Aziraphale stepped back from the bed. “I’m terribly sorry. There’s nothing I’m… there’s nothing I can do.”

She shook her head as she sank to her knees beside the bed. “I don’t blame you, Azherafel. I know if you could—” Her voice broke. 

He brought a stool over and positioned it beside Pawura’s bed. If there was nothing else he could do, he could sit vigil. 

If only he truly were helpless—it might hurt less.

“Maia?”

Aziraphale glanced up to see Pawura watching his wife, dark eyes half-open. His tight grey curls stuck to his forehead, and his eyes were sunken. 

“I’m here, darling,” said Maia. “I’m here with you. And Azherafel is, too.”

Pawura looked to Aziraphale, though the movement obviously took effort. “Azherafel.”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do, dear boy.”

Pawura nodded once, then his eyes fluttered shut again. He was still breathing, though, and fingers tightened around Maia’s hand. “It’s all right. I love you, Maia.”

Maia choked back a sob that sounded a bit like ‘I love you too.’ 

Aziraphale’s chest felt hollow. How was it that this never grew more bearable? It had been twenty-six hundred years. Surely, surely he’d become used to it one day.

Sometimes, he thought he felt more than an Angel should.

PRINCIPALITY.

Aziraphale looked up to see Death. “Oh, hello.”

AGAIN?

“Afraid so.” He paused. “Are you quite sure he’s under your jurisdiction?”

I AM NOT BOUND BY THE RULES OF YOUR REALITY. 

“Quite right.” Aziraphale glanced to the side. “Well. I’ll, er. Let you do your job.”

He could see Death step forward in his peripheral vision, then shut his eyes. 

When time restarted, Pawura’s last breath rushed out, and he was gone.

Maia leaned forward. “No, no, no. Pawura, darling. Come back to me. Please.”

Aziraphale bowed his head. It didn’t get easier. 


	267. 1353 BC - Mediterranean Sea

_1353 BC. Mediterranean Sea_.

Crowley stalked across the deck to the railing and draped himself over the shoulders of a pair of new recruits. “Hi.”

One of them startled away, turning to face him. “What the fuck.”

He stepped back. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

The other one—one of the pale ones who’d come from north of Mycenae—flushed pink and looked away.

Crowley grinned. “Oh, is that how it is.”

“Come off it,” the first one said. They were Kushite, maybe? Crowley had trouble keeping track of nationality when everyone was just on a bunch of boats. “What are you even doing here? I thought you were asleep.”

“I was. Woke up.”

“Well, you can fuck off. We were busy.”

The pale one flushed even more. 

That was part of the trouble with new ones. They hadn’t quite got the whole thing sorted out. Some of them thought they could mess with Crowley just ’cause he was part of the old guard. 

Well. He didn’t have to stand for it. 

And besides, they’d been at sea for a week now, and he was getting bored. 

“Busy?” Crowley put on his very best not-actually-clueless-but-faking-it-well-enough-you-can’t-tell-me-to-leave-without-looking-like-an-arse face. “With what?”

The pale one turned around, arms crossed. “We were flirting, all right?”

“Oh!” He raised his eyebrows comically high so they could be seen over his veil. “Guess I shouldn’t interrupt your little courtship ritual, then, should I?”

“No, you shouldn’t.”

“Aww.” He pouted. “Too bad, then, that—”

“Crowley!”

He spun on his heel. “Nakht?”   
Nakht waved from where they sat on a crate a few paces away.

Ugh. Just like them to ruin Crowley’s fun. “What d’you want?”

“Leave the kids alone.”

The kids laughed at that. 

Crowley turned and scowled at them, though the effect of his Demonic glare was somewhat dampened by the veil. Then he turned and stomped to where Nakht was sitting and sat heavily on another crate. “Bloody life of the party, you are.”

“I didn’t think teasing the new ones was a party.”

“You know what I mean, Nakht.” He crossed his arms, leaning back so he could get a better look at them, then frowned. “What’s going on? Your face is wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Nakht smiled gently. “Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worrying.”

“Oh, good. I’m glad you’re not worrying, then.”

“What isss it?”

Nakht raised their eyebrows.

Crowley looked away. Blasted hiss. 

“It’s nothing bad. Arishat, Piyamaradu, and I are moving.”

Moving? He looked from the sail of the boat to the water where it was flowing past, then back at Nakht. “We are moving.”

“We’re going to live in Pylos.”

Oh, Heaven. Crowley swallowed hard. “When?”

“Whenever we go by again.” Nakht paused. “You know how hard it’s been for Piyamaradu since we lost the kids.” 

Piyamaradu had raised a pair of twins, but they’d died in a surge of fever a few years back. He hadn’t been the same since, and everyone knew it.

“I guess… that’s that, then.” Crowley looked to the side. “Right. Well. I’m sure you’re all ready for some peace and quiet.”

Something touched his shoulder, and he looked up to see Nakht. 

“Do you want to come with us, Crowley?”

He clenched his jaw. “I can’t.” He had to stay with the boats for a few more decades, at least. Something about sowing the seeds of insurrection against Egypt. As far as he was concerned, Egypt was doing a grand old job by itself, but that didn’t change his assignment. 

Nakht nodded. “I see. Is that to do with—?” They gestured toward Crowley’s eyes.

“Pretty much, yeah.” He stood. “Anyway. I’m just going to, er. Reorganize the water.”

He could feel Nakht watching him as he walked away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must confess, I did virtually no research on boats in the 14th century BC, so this is probably vaguely 18th-19th century AD-inspired, and horribly anachronistic.


	268. 1342 BC - Akhetaten, Egypt

_1342 BC. Akhetaten, Egypt._

“Aziraphale! It took me a long time to find you.”

Aziraphale turned to see another Angel striding toward him across the road, dressed in Heavenly robes. He clasped his hands behind his back, hiding a date he’d been about to eat in his palm. “Terribly sorry. Er. Have we met?”

“Galentiel. Your most recent report indicated that you were in a place called… Waset?” 

“Ah.” He smiled weakly. “I have another one nearly finished. It’s not late, is it? No one told me you were coming.”

Galentiel smiled and shook their head. “I’m here to practice my Hebrew.”

Oh, they were speaking Hebrew, weren’t they? Hmm. “I’m afraid this isn’t the best place to do that,” Aziraphale said. “It’s Israel you’ll be wanting. It’s a bit northeast of here. A few months’ journey, if you don’t get lost on the Arabian Peninsula on the way.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Aziraphale sighed. “What I’m trying to say is, this is Egypt. Most humans don’t speak Hebrew here.”

“You do.”

He did, and they were starting to get a humans staring. Aziraphale began walking toward the side of the street, motioning for Galentiel to follow. “I do,” he said when they’d found a slightly quieter area. “But that doesn’t mean the humans do. Why don’t we find you a cartographer, hmm? Or perhaps a merchant. That would do nicely, and you can go to Israel.”

“Excellent.” Galentiel paused. “Why weren’t you in Waset?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale pursed his lips. “It’s the new Pharaoh. He’s begun worshipping just the one god, not the whole pantheon.”

Galentiel’s face lit up. “Really?”

Drat. “Not like that. It’s, er. It’s still an idol, of sorts. A sun-disk called Aten.”

“But it’s progress!”

“Perhaps.” Aziraphale sighed. “Now, really, I have quite a bit of work to do. Would you prefer I show you to a cartographer or a merchant?”

“What’s a ‘cart-gaffer?’”

“ _Cartographer_.” Aziraphale huffed. “They make visual depictions of the land to facilitate travel. It’s quite ingenious.”

“And a merchant…”

“A merchant would have a caravan with whom you could travel.”

Galentiel smiled broadly. “I like that.”

“Quite.” Aziraphale turned. “Come along, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Pharaoh Akhenaten is quite famous, but at risk of being redundant, I’m going to say a bit about him anyway. He spontaneously decided to renounce Egypt’s traditional polytheistic religion in favor of Atenism, a flavor of monotheism. Atenism was the worship of the sun disk Aten, which was originally an aspect of the older god Ra. Akhenaten also moved the capital of Egypt from Waset (a.k.a. Thebes) to Akhetaten (a.k.a. Amarna). The whole thing was pretty wacky, and suffice to say, Akhenaten was not very popular with successors.


	269. 1332 BC - Mediterranean Sea

_1332 BC. Near Hatti, Mediterannean Sea_.

Crowley pushed up his veil to look across the water toward the silhouette of another boat. It looked smaller than theirs, and of Mycenaean design. 

Abdosir, a disagreeable human who’d taken charge of the ship a few years back, clapped him on the shoulder. “What’s it look like?”

Crowley tugged his veil down and whirled around. “Merchants, maybe. At a guess, I’d say they’re bound for Mycenae.”

“Hmm.” Abdosir squinted out over the water, then looked back to Crowley. “Think we can take them?”

“What?”

“In a fight.” 

“Ehh…” He looked back over to the other ship. “I mean, probably. Can’t have many people over there. Six, seven… wouldn’t be very sporting, though.”

Abdosir shrugged. “A merchant vessel bound for Mycenae is just what we need right now.”

Crowley exhaled through his teeth. The humans had been getting restless. He’d hoped to avoid violence, but… oh, well. They weren’t ruthless enough to kill anybody. Just a little blade-happy. “Fine. You want us to go for it?”

“Yes.” Abdosir turned away. “The usual—take a rowboat over, do your thing, and come report.”

“Right.” Crowley turned to go get the boat and motioned to one of the other crewmembers to follow.

They had a lot of practice, so it didn’t take long to get the boat into the water and have a quick chat with the merchants. The negotiations went over surprisingly well, considering the merchants were Egyptian. Poor saps didn’t seem to have it in them to argue with people holding swords.* So before too long, they hopped back on their rowboat to update Abdosir.

(* Swords were a thing, now. Crowley’d done a double-take when he saw one for the first time since Adam and Eve left the Garden. But they were all over the place these days! Not that it was pleasant, mind. Still, Crowley couldn’t help thinking of an angel whenever he saw one.)

Crowley climbed up the side of the boat, then offered the other sailor a hand up before turning to face Abdosir, who was watching them with crossed arms. 

“Well?”

“Sounded good.” Crowley shrugged. “We laid out the facts. They surrender.”

Abdosir raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Er… yeah.” Crowley looked at his companion. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He looked back at Abdosir. “Yeah. I mean… yeah, that’s what’s up. Yep.”

“Hmm.” Abdosir sniffed, then turned to the rest of the crew. “You heard him, people. Let’s go!”

Crowley scrambled to his post at the top of the mast as the humans worked to steer for the other ship. The wind was in their favour, so they were making good time, except— 

“Abdosir!”

Abdosir looked back from his position at the prow. “What is it now, Crowley?”

“They’re making for the headlands.”

“No, they’re not.”

Crowley hissed. Bloody supernatural vision. “Yes, they are. We’ve got to go faster—they’ll crash if they don’t stop.”

“Really?”

“If you don’t _want_ me to be lookout, fine! I’m just doing my bloody job.”

Abdosir scowled, but barked orders to some of the other humans. 

Crowley kept watching the other boat. They weren’t going to catch it at this rate, and the wind was shifting. He could technically miracle them closer, but it wasn’t really the sort of thing he was meant to do. 

And, as much as he didn’t _like_ humans who went around trading with Mycenaeans and Egyptians… they didn’t deserve to wreck their ship and drown. 

The wind shifted again, gusting through the sail. Crowley spent a miracle keeping himself on the mast, then slid down. No point getting himself discorporated.

They were close, now. Maybe twenty yards—close enough their people were gathering on deck, chattering. 

They didn’t do the whole pillage thing that often. Not really. And only from Egyptians, or Mycenaeans in a pinch. Those two had been taking over villages for decades now, and everyone was pretty pissed off about it. 

Crowley shouldered a coil of hemp rope and turned just in time to hear the sound of crunching wood as the other boat collided with the headlands.

“Blast.”

Abdosir moved first, motioning for the crew to help. 

Crowley rushed past the panicked humans and dove into the water. He’d got a lot better at swimming lately, and the other ship sinking fast. 

Plus, he was the only one who could keep himself from being drawn into the sinkhole through sheer force of will, so.

He flinched when he hit the water, but recovered soon enough and stroked toward the other boat. One of the humans had jumped overboard already. 

It was like they didn’t learn! You’d think enough humans had been in shipwrecks by now they’d learned what not to do, but no. 

Crowley reached the hapless human and wrapped an arm around their torso. “For the record,” he said, “that was a fucking terrible idea.”

“Th—thanks.” Their teeth were chattering, from cold or shock, probably. 

Crowley sneered, lugging them to their ship and boosting them out of the water. “You lot, stay put. We’re not monsters, all right? You’ll come with us, even if you did just sink all the cargo.”

“You’re… you’re a monster!” One of the humans pointed a shaking finger at him.

He clenched his jaw, reaching for his face. Bollocks. His veil’d come off. “Y’know what. Y’know what. I just bloody saved your friend’s life, so… there.”

The ship they were on creaked ominously.

He’d save the humans, rude or not. But he didn’t have to be nice about it. Especially when that was how they reacted to him saving their life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The merchants’ ship is vaguely inspired by the Uluburun shipwreck off the coast of Turkey, but my attention to historical accuracy was pretty iffy for this one.


	270. 1320 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for religiously-motivated violence and brief misgendering.

_1320 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Aziraphale turned a corner and hurried into a gap between two buildings, then checked the street behind him. He’d been trying to guide a human, but hadn’t quite paid as much attention to what he said as he ought and ended up suggesting that he only believed in one God. The human had accused him of Atenism, and now there was a band of rather cross humans trying to find him. 

There was a commotion at the end of the street as the first human entered, followed by a succession of others. 

Aziraphale shrank farther into the alley, but it was too late.

“There you are! Come out here, old man.”

“I am not a man,” said Aziraphale petulantly. 

The human bared their teeth. “I don’t care.”

“Oh, dear.”

They nodded in false sympathy. “Yes, that’s better. Now. We’ll give you one more chance.”

Aziraphale drew himself up to his full height—which was, he noted with some meagre satisfaction, taller than the human accosting him. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” he said. “And I shan’t renounce anything. However, I feel obligated to warn you that I am fully capable of—”

The human pulled back their fist to strike, and Aziraphale stepped aside, allowing their fist to strike the wall instead. The human winced visibly.

Aziraphale tutted. “Really now, I did warn you.”

Two more humans shouldered their way into the alley, scowling. 

Drat. There were too many to quite justify making a scene—unless there was a legitimate risk of discorporation, of course. It wouldn’t do to allow his Heaven-sent vessel to be damaged. 

He took a step back and held up a finger. “Now, let’s not be hasty. I know you’re all awfully troubled individuals, considering the present state of the—” He ducked a rock— “Of the monarchical dynasty, but I think you’ll find—oh, dear—” 

One of the humans swung a knife at him, and he stepped neatly to the side, then pushed them just enough that their momentum sent them sprawling onto the ground. 

Aziraphale grimaced down at the human, then looked at the others, some of whom had somewhat more conflicted expressions than they’d had before. “As I was saying when your compatriot so rudely interrupted me, I think you’ll find that it is generally more efficacious to let people who have no quarrel with you mind their own business. Including when you have differing beliefs.”

There was a shuffling noise behind Aziraphale, and he turned to find his attacker on their feet, swinging the knife again. 

He caught their wrist and twisted the knife from their grasp. It clattered to the ground, and he kicked it to the side. The human’s jaw dropped, but they wound up to swing with their other hand, so Aziraphale caught that one as well. Then he spun them around and pressed them against the wall, with both their hands neatly in one of his own. 

Aziraphale sighed, then turned back to the other humans, who’d lost any semblance of the angry mob they’d been a few minutes earlier. “Now. Have I made myself clear?”

The humans nodded and made general, inarticulate noises of affirmation, but didn’t move. 

Which was not quite acceptable. 

Aziraphale smiled at them tightly. “Can I help you? If not, I think it might be wise if you all went on home and rethought your life choices. Don’t you think?”

He prodded his attacker gently.

They nodded hurriedly.

He looked back at the assembly. “He agrees. Off you pop, then. Cheerio.”

It didn’t take long for the humans to scatter, and when they had, he let go of his attacker. They turned to face him immediately, hands in a defensive posture.

Aziraphale stepped back and began examining himself. He seemed to have grazed his knuckles at some point, and was a mite dustier than he had been before the whole to-do. Still, it wasn’t anything a bath and a few weeks couldn’t fix. 

He looked back to the human. “Oh, you’re still here. I’m not about to harm you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Who are you?” 

“A monotheist.”

They blinked.

“My name is Aziraphale. But I wouldn’t recommend sending anyone after me. I imagine you can work out how that might go, can’t you?”

“Yes—yes, I can.”

“Wonderful.” He smoothed out his kilt, then started on his way. “Have a lovely day.”


	271. 1307 BC - Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to murder and torture threats.
> 
> There is a plain text version of the final letter in the end notes below.

_1307 BC. Hell._

To Dagon, Lord of the Tablets.

**When:** Autumn. 2,697 years After Creation. 

**Where:** Boat, Mediterranean Sea, Northern Hemisphere, Earth, Material Reality.

**What [The Big Stuff]:** Tempt humans to sin to bring about Armageddon and the triumph of Hell.

**What [Minutiae You Still Can’t Screw Up Without At Least A Little Bit of Discomfort Afterwards]:** Stir up unrest in the Sea People and make sure they don’t disband.

**Report:** The Sea People gig’s going well. I had to stay on land a couple of times so they didn’t catch on about the whole immortality thing, but the bad news is they’re an all-around rotten group of humans. They’re rude to each other. Lots of swearing and fistfights over little things. 

They’ve also got some serious brewing discord. Especially against the bigger powers around. Mainly Egypt, which is desirable ’cause last I saw, the Enemy agent on Earth was in that area, so. Given a few ~~decades~~ centuries, I’m positive they’ll prove their allegiance to evil by upending the normal organizational structures in the area. Which, incidentally, will also mess things up for the Israelites, so. Lose-lose and all that jazz. 

The Sea People are showing concrete evil tendencies, now, too. The boat I’m on has started raiding other ships carrying goods in pursuit of riches, sometimes harming the rightful owners in the process. There’ve been four deaths from raids in the last couple decades, at my encouragement. 

General sin’s on the rise too. Boat full of hotheaded humans with ocean for miles around is a prime setup for lust. And wrath, too. Grudges here fester like ~~a lot of Demon’s faces~~ a thing that festers. Oh, and there’s loads of greed and pride. Buckets of it. Practically drowning in it. I mean, the whole raiding thing’s greed-motivated, innit? 

For an itemized list of all the fuckery I’ve been up to, see attached tablets. Should be six or seven of them. Maybe a fragment, too. Hard to get clay in the middle of the ocean, let me tell you. 

No issues with the opposition. 

**Questions:** Is it bad that I’m writing this drunk? I guess, since you don’t read the whole thing anyway, it’s not a big deal, yeah? It’s good wine, too. Nicked it off this absolute arse of a Mitanni trader a couple years back… 

-

To Dagon, Lord of the Tablets.

**Addendum:** Forgot to tell you until the last one was fired. My name’s Crowley now. Told you there’d be a pottery fragment, didn’t I?

-

deMon ~~CraWly~~ CrowLey/

We do READ YOUR MESSAGEs. including the LAst one. Lord **Beelze** b **ub** is Not Pleased. Duke _LIGUR_ will feTch you shortly……… assuming thiS reaches you in **tim** _e_. If YOU get thIs up _on_ y **ou’** re return~ in whatev3r state that MIGHT; BE: know you a _ **R**_ ent WeLcoME here UNLess _specifIcally_ **r** equested. 

(:

#BEsT ‘wishes’

Dagon, Lord of the Tablets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plain text version of Dagon's letter:  
> "Demon Crawly Crowley,  
> "We do read your messages. Including the last one. Lord Beelzebub is not pleased. Duke Ligur will fetch you shortly... assuming this reaches you in time. If you get this upon your return, in whatever state that might be, know you aren't welcome here unless specifically requested.  
> "(Backwards smiley face)  
> "Hashtag best wishes,  
> "Dagon, Lord of the Tablets."  
> End plain text.
> 
> As with Dagon's previous letter, this one is written in Comic Sans in my heart. Maybe with an unreadable script font thrown in here and there.  
> Edit 2 March 2021: Figured out how to do fonts and updated accordingly.


	272. 1299 BC - Waset, Egypt

_1299 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Someone knocked at the door to Aziraphale’s house. He started, nearly smudging the scroll he’d been transcribing before he managed to put his stylus down. He smoothed his palms over his thighs and took a deep breath, then exhaled.

He could do this.

He stood quietly and crept across the room to the window. It was dark outside, but he checked on principle. 

Upon ensuring there was no one outside other than the one at the door—or no one with a light, at any rate—he shuttered the windows and straightened up. 

The knock sounded again. 

Aziraphale swallowed.

He was preserving knowledge. It was a virtuous pursuit. Destruction did no one any good. Certainly not destruction of records of a time when Egyptians got closer to reality than ever before!

It was practically his duty. 

He crossed the room and pulled the door open. “Hello.”

A young human stood outside, a sack slung over one shoulder. They appeared to be shaking. “Are you—tell me your name.”

“Azherafel.”

The human nodded hurriedly and pulled the sack off their shoulder, then held it out. “Take it.”

Aziraphale reached out slowly, but didn’t quite take it from them. “Are you quite all right?”

“What?”

“You seem distressed.” He took the sack properly and stood to one side. “Quite so, in fact. I don’t mean to presume, but… if you’d like, you’re welcome to come in? I have a spot of beer somewhere, and I’d be happy to listen to whatever seems to be troubling you.”

The human blinked. “Why would you do that?”

“I mean you no harm.” Aziraphale turned to set the sack down behind the door, the scrolls within rustling. “And it’s no trouble. I suffer from insomnia, you see, so it won’t cost me any sleep.”

The human looked confused, poor lad. 

Aziraphale stepped aside. “Really. Besides, you look half frozen out there.”

“Okay…” They stepped inside and went to sit gingerly on one of the chairs. 

Aziraphale fetched the beer, which was left over from several decades ago but would find itself unspoiled when poured. After all, this poor human needed advice, and who was he to deny them that?

He could deal with the stolen scrolls later. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scrolls Aziraphale is saving are records from the Amarna period which the Pharaoh Horemheb—the last pharaoh of the 18th dynasty!—tried to destroy. While I’m not entirely clear that he destroyed scrolls specifically, he did desecrate the last tomb of an Amarna pharaoh (who was named Ay), so it didn’t seem terribly far-fetched.


	273. 1285 BC - Tarsus, Hatti

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence, self-destructive behavior, misgendering, implied slavery, and reference to past torture.

_1285 BC. Tarsus, Hatti._

Crowley grabbed the drunk human by the front of his tunic and shoved him off the kid from their boat. “Leave off. She hasn’t done anything to you.”

“Not yet,” the human said, making an ineffective swat at their face. “Let me at her.”

“Nah.” Crowley let go of his tunic and shook out their hand. “Go on, then. Scarper.”

Another human, this one dressed in armour, rounded the corner. “Is this urchin bothering you, Katu?”

Katu smoothed out the front of his tunic. “Yeah, he is.”

Crowley hissed at them. “I am not an urchin. Or a man!”

“Scoundrel, then.” The armoured one rested one hand on the hilt of his sword and looked Crowley up and down. “Get out of here, buddy. Or you’ll have something else coming to you.”

Crowley bared their teeth at him. They could hear the kid from the boat running off out the other end of the alley. Good. She didn’t need to bother with these bastards. 

More people in armour were gathering, blast it all.

On one hand, they could technically get out now. Thing was, the kid hadn’t got far enough away, and they were pretty sure her downward spiral into sin would keep up if no one scared her out of it. Which these Hittites would, given half a chance. 

So they just had to distract them long enough for her to run off. Shouldn’t be too difficult.

“Nah.”

“What?”

“You lot are the ones with something coming.” 

That sounded a lot better in their head. Oh, well.

Crowley punched Katu. Not very hard, but hard enough their knuckles popped. 

They moved back and shook out their hand. It wasn’t badly damaged. They knew what _that_ felt like. So they looked up at the humans and pulled off their veil. “Come on, then. Wanna go? Time to fight the big, bad Demon, everybody!”

One of the humans—the leader, probably—drew his sword and lunged for her. 

Crowley danced out of the way and moved to face the rest of the humans. “Aww, look at that, they missed. Can’t you do any better, hmm? And I thought you might be competent.”

The human lunged again from behind, and they stepped aside again. 

They made an expression of mock-disappointment. “No? No one?” The kid had to be far enough off by now, right? Had to be. “Right,” Crowley said. “Good chat. I’m out.”

They turned and bolted.

The humans followed with a collective roar, but Crowley had the advantage of speed and manoeuvrability. They wove through the crowd, ducking between stalls and pulling displays down behind them. 

It didn’t take long to throw the humans off. They weren’t exactly brainy types—big groups of fit blokes out for a scrap usually weren’t.

Crowley stopped running and paused in a square, hands on their knees as they caught their breath. They didn’t recognize the area, so they’d have to ask around to find the way back to the boat. Not as bad as it could’ve been. 

They straightened up again and turned. Could just go back toward the ocean, right? Had to be there someplace. 

The leader of the armoured humans stepped out front behind a food stall and brought his sword up to Crowley’s throat. “Now, where do you think you’re going?”

Crowley swallowed. They could feel the blade against their skin, just grazing it. They raised their hands in surrender. “Right. You got me.”

Two more of the Hittites caught up, looking winded, but came up behind Crowley. One took each arm, holding them roughly.

The leader grinned. “Now. Let’s see… should I kill you? Or just lock you up, hmm?”

Crowley’s breath grew more shallow. They couldn’t go back to Hell. Not now. Not after last time. Definitely not by discorporation. They’d never come back. “Don’t kill me,” they gasped out even as the sword stung against their throat. “Please.”

The human stepped back, taking the sword away. “Well, that’s your answer, gentlemen. Lock him up.”

Crowley exhaled. “I’m not a man.”

One of the humans behind them let go, and the other took hold of their wrists, crossing them behind their back. Something clinked behind them. 

The leader grinned. “Too bad, buddy.”

Irons closed around Crowley’s wrists, and a horrible deadening feeling washed over them. Not just the feeling of being locked up—though that wasn’t any fun either—but something more. Something…

“Holy?” Crowley looked at the human with panicked eyes. “How the fuck are the _handcuffs_ holy?”

The human shrugged, the bastard. “We bought them off some traders in Israel.”

Oh, Israel. That’d do it. The one group of humans who could actually bless anything worth a measure of grain.

One of the humans prodded them in the back. “Move.”

Crowley moved, stumbling numbly forward.

They’d been captured. Actually, properly captured. They couldn’t miracle themself out of this one. 

It’d be fine. Right? Had to be. And it would. 

So long as Hell didn’t find out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Star Trek, Kirk lived on a planet called Tarsus IV as a teenager, which is fun. (Though Tarsus IV was not fun. There was a massacre. It wasn’t pretty.)


	274. 1284 BC - Waset, Egypt

_1284 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Aziraphale thanked the human noble he’d been guiding and turned to leave the house. It was quite large, particularly considering that it was in the city. He’d been visiting every now and again for a few weeks now, attempting to convince the human into a more lenient position on relations with Israel.*

(* Aziraphale had now been in Egypt long enough that he looked Egyptian again. He’d been taking advantage of the development to sway various Egyptians in the Israelites’ favour.)

He walked out the door and into the courtyard, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. The summer air was sweet. 

“Angel?”

His eyes snapped open and he took a step back. “Crawly?” He hadn’t felt their presence at all. 

But there they were, watching him with uncovered eyes. What had happened to their veil? And why on Earth was their kilt pale brown?

Crawly looked away, scowling. “I’ll go.” They turned to walk away, but Aziraphale grabbed their arm. 

Oh, how dreadful. Crawly didn’t feel like themself, not in the slightest. Their Demonic presence, normally sharp and obvious, had been reduced to a faint echo under their skin. Aziraphale let go and inhaled sharply. “What exactly has happened to you?”

Crawly stopped again and turned to face him, then lifted an arm. There was a metal cuff around their wrist.

Aziraphale huffed. “Yes, I can see that. I mean to _you_. Something’s—”

“If you’re going to make fun of me, you can fuck off.”

“What? I beg your pardon!”

Crawly hissed. “It’s the bloody cuffs. Some wanker blessed them. Don’t think anyone’s realized what I am.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Blessed? By whom?”

“Israelites, obviously. Nobody else could. ’Cept an Angel, but… that’d hurt a lot more.” They turned away. “Just let me get on, all right? I’m working on it.”

“Absolutely not.”

Crawly froze, then turned slowly, eyes wide. “Don’t discorporate me.”

“What? Of course not. It’s been centuries since—well, you know.” He huffed. “No, I mean, I’m not leaving you here.”

“Ngh. Why?”

“Because… _because_ , if you escape of your own accord, you’re liable to injure humans on your way. And I can’t have that, so you’re coming with me.”

“Right. Humans won’t like that.”

“Not if I do this.” Aziraphale raised a hand and summoned up power, then snapped his fingers and transported them both to his own house.

Crawly collapsed the instant they arrived, falling to their knees on the floor. “Bloody heaven, Aziraphale. That _hurts_.”

“What?” Aziraphale frowned. “Oh, dear, I forgot about that.” His magic was holy, so of course it hurt them in this state. Drat. 

“Yeah.” They hissed, then scrambled up again. “How’d you find me, anyway?”

“I didn’t.” Aziraphale stepped closer, then sighed in frustration when Crawly flinched away. “Crawly, if you don’t let me get close, I won’t be able to remove the manacles.”

They squinted at him suspiciously, then their shoulders slumped and they held out their wrists. “Fine. Guess you can’t make it much worse.”

Aziraphale had the tact not to mention that he could, in fact, make it a great deal worse in a number of ways. Instead, he stepped closer and took one of Crawly’s wrists in one hand. 

The cuff was crudely made, but now he was touching it, had definitely been blessed. He could feel the familiar tingle of holiness when he touched it. And it appeared to have caused the skin around it to blister horribly—though perhaps that was simply abrasion.

“Get on with it, angel.”

He looked back at Crawly, who was studiously watching the wall to their left. They looked almost casual, except for the tightness in their jaw and the horribly stiff way they held their shoulders. 

Aziraphale ran a finger down the length of the cuff, drawing the blessing back into himself. He could feel it ripple down his hand and dissipate into the rest of his being. Then he snapped his fingers and the cuff snapped in half, then fell to the ground. 

He released Crawly’s wrist and took the other, then repeated the process. When he’d finished, he let go of the other wrist and stepped back.

Crawly sighed, finally relaxing. They were back, their presence filling the room with a Hellish taint.

Aziraphale smiled. “Better?”

“Yeah.” Crawly massaged their wrists, grimacing with the motion as he met Aziraphale’s eyes. “Humans.”

“Indeed.”

They watched one another for a moment. There was a most peculiar sensation in Aziraphale’s chest.

Crawly looked away again. “Well. I’m a long way from where I’m meant to be.”

“What happened?”

They shrugged. “Some Hittites interrupted a temptation. Were going to undermine it, so I tried to fight them off. They cornered me, though. Gave me the option of discorporating or captivity. I wasn’t about to go back to Hell, so…” Their voice trailed off, then they shook themself. “Anyway. How was I supposed to know they had blessed handcuffs?”

“Why not discorporate once they caught you?” Surely a bit of bureaucracy was better than indefinite captivity.

Crawly’s expression darkened. “None of your busssiness.”

Oh dear. “I didn’t mean to make you… that is, pay me no mind.”

“Mmm. Right. D’you have some wine? I do have to head back north, but I’ve had nothing but beer for weeks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for deadnaming (inadvertent and not malicious), slavery, injury, and implied/referenced torture.


	275. 1273 BC - Athens, Greece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to slavery and torture.

_1273 BC. Athens, Mycenae, Greece._

Crowley leaned against the wall of the fortress, looking down over the hill. They’d just arrived in town, and weren’t quite ready to deal with humans yet. They’d dealt with humans the whole way here, which was a long time. It was no small thing, trying to get from Waset to Athens. 

If they were honest, they’d taken longer than they strictly needed to. Could have sailed, for one. Hadn’t though. Any traders might recognize them, and they didn’t feel like explaining what had happened to the Sea People. 

It had given them time, though, which they needed. A lot had been going on, and Crowley wasn’t exactly one for processing emotion.

Still, they weren’t processing. Not really. Just… sorting through a collection of facts. 

First, they hadn’t really worked out what pissed Dagon off so much in the first place. They didn’t even remember what was on that report. They’d asked to be called Crowley, obviously. That much was clear. But what made her mad? Not a clue. So. No more writing reports drunk. 

Then there was the whole blessed-cuffs thing. This was what they got not stopping Aziraphale’s plans, apparently: humans who could bless things. Because they knew Aziraphale had been involved in the whole Israelites-in-Canaan thing. 

Crowley wasn’t scared. Nope. Not a thing they did, fear. 

But… humans! Who could bless things. What if they encountered a blessed sword? Or worse, blessed _water_? They hadn’t heard of holy water around since the War. If the humans started throwing around blessings willy-nilly, they could be in serious trouble.

Anyway. 

And then…

Well. 

And then there was the other thing. 

The Aziraphale thing.

Because he’d done _that_ , hadn’t he? What the Heaven was Crowley supposed to think about that! The whole ‘you might hurt people if you escaped on your own’ thing was… not credible. Or at least, they hoped it wasn’t. Hoped Aziraphale knew they weren’t that sort. 

He had to by now. Didn’t he? Or was it just wishful thinking? Thinking he might actually… care about Crowley. As a friend. Or enough to not want them to be locked up, anyway. Was it more realistic to assume Aziraphale meant what he said? That he thought Crowley would—that they’d hurt those humans? 

Because sure, Crowley hadn’t been happy with them, when they got out. Might’ve given them a bit of a fright. But not hurt them. 

Crowley tilted their head back and closed their eyes, letting the sun pour over their face. 

It wasn’t a big deal. They were way out here now. Wasn’t like they could ask Aziraphale, anyway. ‘So d’you think I’m actually evil? Or did you save me out of… something else?’

As if. 

They’d just have to keep feeling things out. The two of them couldn’t be friends, obviously. Not properly. They wouldn’t be able to say it. Satan knew what the Demons would do to Crowley if they found out they’d befriended an Angel. 

And it wasn’t as though they didn’t have time to work out what was going on in Aziraphale’s head. All the time in the world, literally. 


	276. 1259 BC - Waset, Egypt

_1259 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Aziraphale shut the door to a small, windowless building on the outskirts of the city, then snapped his fingers. “Let there be light.”

The room was barren and supernaturally clean, built of flawless white limestone blocks. The only entrance was the door behind him. 

He was awaiting another Angel, who was apparently coming down to get into the swing of things on Earth. He’d received a memo earlier that day, and had to cancel a meeting with a human he’d been guiding at the last minute.

A wave of holiness washed over him and another Angel appeared, dressed in standard Heavenly robes. 

They were slightly shorter than him, with pale green wings and black hair in neat coils streaked with the same green. They nodded politely. “Principality Aziraphale, I assume?”

“Quite so. And you are—?”

“Principality Sachael.”

“Ah. I’m pleased to meet you.” He inhaled, then sighed. There was nothing to worry about, really. Sachael seemed perfectly pleasant. 

Of course they were, they were an Angel!

Aziraphale tried to smile. “Well, then. I’m afraid your wings will have to be tucked away before we can leave this building.”

“Hmm?” Sachael glanced back. “Oh, yeah.” They folded them in, then looked back to Aziraphale. “Is that right?”

“Exactly right.” He smiled, then snapped his fingers to extinguish the holy light that had illuminated the room before opening the door. “Shall we?”

Sachael stepped outside slowly, eyes wide. “That’s… a lot of humans.”

He stepped out after them. “Ah. Yes. One becomes accustomed to it.”

“Really?”

“I certainly did. It only took… oh, a few centuries, I suppose.” He shut the door behind them and gestured down the road. “This way. I have a little, er, dwelling where we will be able to discuss business in private.” He’d spent much of the morning moving his things elsewhere to make room* for two beings.

(* This was not true. Aziraphale, however, had been falling into deeper and deeper denial since he began writing. As such, he was not about to admit that he was moving things so the other Angel wouldn’t discover his more material activities. Not even to himself.)

“Excellent.” 

They walked in relative silence back to Aziraphale’s house. A few humans gave them odd looks. He’d have to find Sachael some less obtrusive clothing. 

Upon their arrival at Aziraphale’s house, he nearly went to pour them both wine, but stopped at the last moment and went instead to sit opposite Sachael, who’d taken Crawly’s chair. 

Oh. 

_Crawly’s_ chair. Hmm. 

Tucking that away. 

He smoothed down his kilt. “Now, then. What brings you here?”


	277. 1251 BC - Athens, Greece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to torture.

_1251 BC. Athens, Mycenae, Greece_.

Crowley held up a hand, stopping the human trader they were talking to mid-sentence. “Hang on.” They smiled ingratiatingly. “There’s something I have to do. You don’t mind, do you?”

The human gaped at them, but that was all right. They’d only just met her, so it wasn’t really a big deal. 

So they smiled at her and turned, walking casually in the opposite direction. 

They’d lost track of time. It was starting now—people starting to notice. They couldn’t look directly at it in this body, of course—not yet, anyway—but they wanted to be in position when they could. 

It had happened before, since they’d been on Earth. They hadn’t really bothered with it, though. But something felt different this time. Maybe it was the name. 

Crowley found the boulder they’d picked out for the occasion and scrambled up, then settled themself right on top. The stone was warm from the sun under their fingers, heat soaking through their skin. 

They leaned back and shut their eyes under their veil, hissing. 

No one was watching. Knowing that was the only good thing to come of that last time they went to Hell. Of all the accusations leveled at them, not one mentioned the fact that they weren’t reporting honestly. 

Which meant they could have this. The sun. Not worrying about Hell so long as they turned in their report on time. 

The sky went dark, and the humans began screaming as if on cue. 

Crowley opened their eyes and pulled their veil up. The moon was outlined in a fiery halo of starlight, casting a shadow over Greece. 

Crowley remembered when the other Angels thought it up. They’d laughed and thought it was absurd. And it was, when you were in space.

On Earth? Not so much. 

On Earth, it was beautiful. 

Crowley grinned up into the darkened sky. “You hear that? ’S better down here.”


	278. 1243 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief unwanted advances.

_1243 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Aziraphale smoothed the front of his tunic and stepped up into the hall. There were humans milling about, chattering and laughing about who knew what. They were the wealthier sort, and many were already mildly intoxicated.

He wasn’t here on assignment, strictly speaking. It was part of his more self-directed work. With Sachael out of town on an independent mission for a few days, he thought he’d slip one or two in to spice up his reports.

A young human in masculine clothing stepped up to his elbow. “Hey.”

Aziraphale turned. “Oh, er. Hello.” 

The human held out a goblet. “I haven’t seen you here before. Are you new in town?”

“Quite the opposite.” Aziraphale took the cup and took a cautious sip, then wrinkled his nose. It was beer. He brushed a finger around the bowl of the goblet, switching it out for white wine, then looked back to the young man. “I don’t suppose you’d happen to know where I might find the most indecorous ones among this—” He gestured at the humans around them. “—riff-raff?”

The human smirked and fluttered his eyelashes at him. He was wearing quite a lot of kohl. Not unlike Cr—ah, no. At any rate, the fellow fixed Aziraphale with what was undoubtedly an attempt at a sultry gaze. “Look no farther.”

Drat. “No, thank you.” Aziraphale sighed. “If you’ll excuse me?”

The human gaped at him as he pushed past and made his way toward a servant holding a platter of figs. He took a few of them and blessed the server. Then he turned to observe the party, biting into the first fig. 

“What are you doing?”

Aziraphale nearly choked on the fig, coughed twice, and swallowed. 

Sachael stood directly in front of him, arms crossed, scowling. “Are you done?”

“Sachael! How lovely to see you here. You gave me quite the fright.” He hid his hand with the figs behind his back and attempted to make the wine as unobtrusive as possible. “What can I do for you?”

“I had returned to tell you that I completed my excursion earlier than expected.” She pursed her lips. “Aziraphale. Are you… _eating_?”

Oh. Hmm. Well, there was really only one solution for this. Even if it was a bit of a ‘leap of faith,’ as it were.

He brought his hands out in front of him and, as casually as he could, bit into another fig. “Yes. It’s the done thing, in venues like this, and the humans grew suspicious of me the last time I was here.”

Sachael looked suspicious, but her posture relaxed slightly. “I see. Is it… good?”

“Quite,” said Aziraphale in as ambiguous a tone as he could muster, which was really very ambiguous. “Would you like one?” He offered his palm. 

She made an expression of disgust. “No. Thank you.”

“I suppose you can go without eating, considering it’s your first time here.” Aziraphale swallowed. “My congratulations upon your completed mission, by the way. Did it go well?”

“Yes.”

“Lovely.”

Sachael took a few steps away. “I’ll leave you, then. I assume you are completing an assignment?”

“Of sorts.” Aziraphale waved as best he could with figs in his hand. “I’ll be sure to drop by when I’m done. Just to, er, assure you of my success.”

“Good.” She turned and began walking away. “Good luck, Aziraphale.”

“Thank you.”

He watched as Sachael walked away, then relaxed minutely as she passed through the doorway and left. Goodness, that had been quite taxing. 

Still. Aziraphale certainly wasn’t doing anything wrong. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was so anxious about. 

He took a sip of wine, then turned away from the door. He’d come here to guide humans, and guide them he would. Just as soon as he finished these figs. 


	279. 1230 BC - Athens, Greece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for depicted suicide, grief (death of a child), reference to xenophobia, and illness (nausea).
> 
> This one doesn't have much bearing on plot, so skipping it shouldn't cause issues understanding later stuff. I've included a summary in the end notes anyway.

_1230 BC. Athens, Mycenae, Greece._

Crowley climbed the stairs to the top of the cliff, whistling. There hadn’t been anyone in the gardens at the base, so they’d been able to finish all their tasks in record time. Granted, they’d used magic for most of it, but no one needed to know that besides them. 

At the top, they paused for a moment and inhaled. The wind was stronger up here, blowing in off the ocean. 

“Who’s there?”

They opened their eyes to see an older human in fine robes watching them warily. 

Oh, bollocks. 

Crowley dropped to one knee. “Your highness. I didn’t realize you were up here.”

King Aegeus shook his head. “It’s all right, Mr.—”

“Crowley.” They stood again, brushing the dirt off their knees. “I’m one of the gardeners.” They hadn’t got rid of their Egyptian accent enough yet to enter court. 

“You do good work.”

“Thanks.” Crowley brandished their tools. “I’ll get on, then. Are you… all right up here, your highness?”

The king nodded. “I’m waiting for my son’s ship to return.”

“Your son—oh, right. The bloke with the sandals, yeah? Isn’t he doing that…” They trailed off. “That’s the one. Sorry, your highness. Not thinking. I’ll just—” They pointed and walked away. 

The plants up here were getting complacent. One of them had insects all over it. Crowley ripped that one out and stomped on it for good measure. 

It made sense, really. If the other gardeners were going to cut corners, it would be up here. The climb wasn’t pleasant, and people barely ever came up anyway. Too much wind and not enough seating. The view wasn’t really worth it, either. Just water. 

Crowley moved to another plant and began pruning it, pulling their veil up so they could see better.

There was a thud behind them. 

They turned to see King Aegeus, collapsed to his knees.

Crowley stood. “Your highness?”

The king pointed a trembling finger over the water. On the horizon, they could see a ship with dark, rippling sails. 

“That’s your son, isn’t it?”

“No.” King Aegeus shook his head, his voice breaking as he pushed himself slowly to his feet. “No, he’s not there.”

“What?”

“He’s dead.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, your highness.”

King Aegeus shook his head and took a step toward the cliff’s edge. “It’s just as well. I will see him in the afterlife.”

Shit.

Crowley started forward, but the king stepped over the precipice. 

They froze. 

There was a distant splash. 

Shit, shit, shit, _shit_. Way to look like a bloody assassin. They had to get out of here before someone realized what had happened. 

They pulled their veil off and scrubbed at their eyes. King Aegeus had been popular, too. Seemed a decent bloke. 

Ugh. 

They swallowed hard and put the veil back on, then walked to the edge. The water went all the way to the base of the cliffs, thank Satan, so they couldn’t see anywhere a human would see them… and it was a lot more pleasant than hiding as a snake in this weather. 

Crowley spread their wings and stepped off, diving toward the surface of the water, where they flapped once and skimmed the waves. There was no sign of the king. 

Not that they were checking. 

They pulled up and made for a beach, where they tumbled into the surf and tucked their wings away. Their stomach was protesting. Maybe to the aerial acrobatics, maybe to something else. Hard to say. 

At least it would look good on a report. If Crowley could bring themself to write it, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Crowley is gardening on a cliff in Athens. King Aegeus comes up to keep a look out for his son Theseus's ship. When he sees that the ship is flying dark sails which indicate that Theseus is dead, Aegeus commits suicide. Crowley is distraught but resolves to take credit. 
> 
> For anyone not familiar with the myth, Aegeus's son (Theseus) isn't actually dead—he just messed up and forgot to fly white sails which would indicate his survival.


	280. 1222 BC - Waset, Egypt

_1222 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Aziraphale hurried up behind Sachael, who was glaring at an onion vendor. “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you. It’s time to go home.”

Sachael looked at him, still glaring. “I am busy, Aziraphale.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I _said_ , it’s time to go home.”

She looked down. “Fine.” She crossed her arms and turned away. “But only because you’re my commander.”

“I’m—oh, yes, of course.” Aziraphale put a hand on her shoulder to steer her away from the vendor. He’d nearly forgotten about rank, after so long down here, but it was true he technically had seniority over any Angels ranked Principalities or lower, who also happened to be posted on Earth. 

Once they’d gotten a reasonable distance away, Aziraphale rounded on Sachael. “What, may I ask, _exactly_ were you intending to accomplish there?”

She crossed her arms. “I was guiding him.”

Aziraphale looked at the sky in irritation, then focused on her again. “You could have been a bit kinder.”

“He wasn’t listening to me!”

“Sometimes it takes time.” He huffed. “Then again, I suppose I can’t expect you to understand, since you’ve only been here a few years.”

“I have been here for thirty-seven years.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and exhaled slowly before making eye contact with her. “And _I_ have been here for twenty-seven centuries, give or take.” 

“Oh.”

“Indeed.” He straightened up and tugged at his tunic. “Now, then. I don’t want to remind you again.”

“You won’t have to.”

“Good.”

“In fact, I haven’t reported for duty properly.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Sachael reached into the air and pulled a rod of copper from the firmament. Or, perhaps not a rod. A spear.

She hit to base on the ground and it burst into flames. “Principality Sachael, reporting for duty.”

Was this normal in Heaven these days? Perhaps Sachael was just overeager. Either way, the humans would notice. 

Aziraphale shook his head quickly. “No, no, that’s quite all right. Put the spear away.”

Sachael looked disappointed, but vanished the flaming spear again. “Fine.”

He sighed in relief. “Excellent. Shall we get home, then?”

“Of course, Aziraphale.” She turned and fell into step beside him as he began walking back toward his neighbourhood. “Oh. Aziraphale?”

“What is it?”

“Human weapons don’t flame, do they?”

“Not typically, no.”

She paused, and he could see her nodding slowly in his peripheral vision. “So that’s why you don’t get out your sword.”

“My—” Goodness, he hadn’t thought about that in ages. “Quite. Yes. That’s exactly right. Good job… sorting that out.”


	281. 1213 BC - Skyros, Aegean Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for murder of a queer character, brief reference to suicide, reference to torture, and grief.

_1213 BC. Skyros, Aegean Sea._

Crowley sat on the edge of a cliff, looking out over the sea. They’d received a new message from Hell in the morning—their first since the report that went wrong—with an assignment. They weren’t ready for it, though.

The sun would set soon. They had to do it before that. Or, ought to. Should. Were expected to. 

It’d be over soon enough, though. Death by fall off a cliff was quick, too. Painful, but quick. 

Like parent, like child. 

Crowley flopped backward to look up at the sky. There were a few clouds drifting by, white and fluffy and… 

Aziraphale would hate them. Not the clouds—Crowley. And he’d just done the thing he did back in Waset, too. The _thing_. Well. It was a good thing that he wasn’t here, wasn’t it?

Unless… well, unless he’d thwart them.

Hmm. 

Probably wouldn’t thwart them if they asked for it, though.

Crowley groaned and ran their hands over their face, then sat up to look out over the sea again. It was a long way down, that was for sure.

They swung their legs around onto solid ground and stood, running a hand through their hair as the sea wind blew their curls into their face. The kings would be arriving soon. 

In fact, they could hear them now. 

Bless it, they had to hide. 

Crowley shifted to snake form and slithered into a nearby shrub just as Theseus and Lycomedes strode into view, both clearly drunk. Lycomedes had one arm around Theseus’s shoulder, and they were laughing.

They paused overlooking the cliff. 

Theseus leaned into his companion. “I know I said already, but… thanks. Your hospitality’s been… fuckin’. Good. Y’know?”

“No trouble, for you.”

This would not be easy. 

Crowley slithered out from behind the shrub. They went much slower than usual so as to avoid noise. 

“But I’m… I’m… I lost my _throne_. Athens!”

“I know you’d’ve done the same for me.” Lycomedes reached out, brushing a curl from Theseus’s face. “Yeah?”

“I mean. Yeah.”

“Mm.”

Crowley walked up behind them and shifted back to human form silently. 

They were so _not_ prepared for this. But Hell’d have their head otherwise. 

Crowley shoved Lycomedes's arm where it was pressed around Theseus.

Both kings shouted and Theseus stumbled forward, his foot catching on a tuft of grass at the edge of the cliff.

He balanced there for a split second, the moment frozen in time.* Lycomedes reached for him, eyes wide, mouth opening in shock. Then Theseus fell. 

(* Though Crowley didn’t realize it just then, they did instinctively freeze time for a moment.)

“No!” Lycomedes reached for his friend, but Theseus was out of reach. 

There was a moment of silence, then a horrible crunch.

Lycomedes shouted, a wordless sound that made something deep in Crowley’s chest crack. 

Crowley shifted back into snake form, then darted away just as Lycomedes turned. 

“You killed him!” There were tears on the king’s face, his eyes manic. “Come out here and face me, you coward!” 

Crowley curled into a knot under a bush and buried their head in their coils. They felt drained all of a sudden—far too much so to teleport away.

At the edge of the cliff, Lycomedes collapsed to his knees. “You—you killed my best friend.” His voice was high and broken.

Something crackled beside Crowley and they raised their head to see a tablet appear. They couldn’t read very well in snake form, but the general gist was obvious. ‘Bad job, Crowley.’

They buried their face again. They could still hear Lycomedes sobbing out there. 

Fucking Hell. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theseus probably isn’t super historically accurate… but, in my defense, there was a period of civil unrest around this time—more on that next scene!—and the death of a king seemed to match up with that. And Theseus’s death was in Wikipedia’s timeline for the 13th century BC, so. I did nearly read Theseus’s bit of Plutarch’s Lives for this but ultimately decided not to because of time constraints.


	282. 1204 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for emotional abuse (Heaven) and reference to the Flood.

_1204 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Aziraphale opened the door to his home. “Terribly sorry, but I’m not currently taking—oh, Sachael!”

She waved. “Aziraphale.”

He stepped aside and gestured into his house. “I didn’t realize you were coming back.”

“It has been years.”

“So it has.” He bustled over to his work area. He’d been taking a few scribal commissions again and needed to tidy things up a bit. “How is Hatti?”

“All going according to the Plan.”

“Wonderful.” He began cleaning his stylus. “And the Israelites?”

“Well.”

“Jolly good.” He tucked the stylus away where it went. “We’ve had a bit of upset in these parts. The ‘Sea People.’ Of course, that was in Lower Egypt, but we still heard about it here.” He turned around to face Sachael. “Might I fetch you something?”

“No, thank you.” She’d sat in Crawly’s seat, as she was wont to do these days. 

“Ah.” He settled into his own chair opposite her, smoothing the pleats of his tunic with his palms. “Anything else of import?”

“Hattusa has fallen.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Goodness. I’m sorry?”

“Hattusa. The capital of the Hittite Empire.”

“Yes, I know what Hattusa is.” He pursed his lips. “What do you mean, ‘fallen’? You said Hatti was well.”

“No, I said it was according to the Plan.”

That… Hmm. “I see. Then… Hatti hasn’t escaped all this—the dreadful business these days?”

“No.”

What a shame. There was a lot of conquering and pillaging about. And the drought wasn’t helping in the slightest. “I suppose that’s Famine and War, then.” He attempted to chuckle.

Sachael frowned. “In part. Are you well, Aziraphale?”

“What?” He chuckled again, glancing from one of his hands in his lap to the other, then back up at her. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know.” She sat back and closed her eyes. “Word in Heaven was, you asked for the Flood to be called off.”

Well. He had done that. Technically speaking. “It seemed excessive force at the time.”

She lifted her head, dark eyes flashing. “What?”

Aziraphale felt quite cold all of a sudden. “That is to say, it _seemed_ excessive, because I found my, er, perception of the circumstances rather warped by my… involvement with the humans. Rest assured, I have since seen the error of my ways and remedied the problem.”

“I see.” She tilted her head, then shrugged and sat back, closing her eyes again. “If the Almighty didn’t cast you out for it, then I have no problem with it.”

He swallowed. “How generous.”

“Indeed.”

Sachael stayed still for quite awhile, her eyes still closed. Despite that, there was a peculiar, unsettling sensation of someone watching him. He shifted in his seat, but didn’t stand. 

What an odd exchange. Of course, Aziraphale still wasn’t sure exactly how he felt about the Flood—those were among the emotional experiences he’d chosen to forgo—but it almost seemed as though… as though Sachael had been asking him for a _reason_.

It was a preposterous idea, of course. Utterly ludicrous. Why, he wasn’t entirely sure how such a thing even occurred to him! 

Sachael was simply here to learn about God’s Creation, and humanity. And goodness knew he understood that. Humanity was lovely. All those foods, and inventions, and people, and ideas.

He had nothing to worry about. Nothing whatsoever, at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hattusa did fall around 1200 BC, as part of the Late Bronze Age Collapse, and there were attacks from the Sea People a bit before the time this scene is set. The Israelites had only just entered written record, and were doing very poorly indeed, having lost a battle to Egypt before 1208 BC. However, in order to mesh my Biblical timeline—which suggests Israel rising in power around this time—with the historical timeline, in the context of this story, Israel is doing okay.


	283. 1191 BC - Athens, Greece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for depression and references to both murder and torture.

_1191 BC. Athens, Greece._

Crowley leaned against the wall of a house, tossing a rock from one hand to the other. They’d spent the morning doing one temptation after another, trying to get their next report up to snuff. It was working, thank Satan. 

Athens wasn’t what it used to be. With Mycenae gone, all the trade networks had fallen apart. Not to mention Hatti, too. Oh yeah, and it hadn’t helped that Athens didn’t have a king anymore. 

Y’know, because Crowley _killed_ him.

They missed the pebble on the next toss. It clattered to the ground and skittered away. 

Thing was… the thing was, Crowley wasn’t doing so well. Not by a long shot. It seemed like the whole world was a mess. They’d sent a request to be posted someplace else. China, maybe. Or Mesoamerica. They’d heard things were going well there. 

But not here. 

Hatti was gone. Mycenae was gone. The Kassites. Amorites. Heaven, even Egypt wasn’t doing great these days. 

And it was all Crowley’s bloody fault. 

After all, ask anybody. Who brought down Hatti? The Sea People. And who got the Sea People their start? Crowley did. 

Bad Demon Crowley, following directions and bringing down empires single-handedly. 

Hell ought to love them right now. 

But no, they’d filled out a report drunk, spent three years in Hell—both figurative and literal, ta very much—and come back to every place they’d ever spent more than fifty years falling into disarray. 

Or. Well. That wasn’t quite accurate. Uruk hadn’t been doing so well for centuries, and they’d spent longer there than… nearly anywhere else, really. 

But it might as well have been accurate! 

Come on. _Egypt_ was doing badly. That was bloody ridiculous. They’d been there when Egypt began, which they couldn’t say of Uruk. 

Crowley had given up trying to sort that one out a long time ago. 

But the point was. They saw the Narmer bloke start Egypt. Nearly two thousand years ago, now. And now… they couldn’t be sure if Egypt would last.

They picked up another pebble and slung it across the road, relishing the futility with which it fell into the dust. 

A baby was crying somewhere.

Crowley should get up soon. They had work to do. It was just so hard, though. And really… did they deserve it? Not the work, mind, that wasn’t the most enjoyable. But the not-being-in-Hell bit. When a human killed someone, they went to Hell. Seemed odd that Crowley was allowed to kill someone and just… get away with it without any metaphysical consequences. 

That was the point of a Demon, though. Or an Angel. Supposed to be outside of the Plan, to poke and prod the humans into whatever it was She wanted. 

Which was a terrible idea, if you asked them. Not that anyone did. They didn’t even listen when Crowley started talking. 

Aziraphale did, a bit. Maybe. Until they got too blasphemous. But it was better than nothing. And that was what friends were for, wasn’t it? Listening? 

Satan, they’d gotten maudlin. 

Crowley stood shakily. Probably ought to sleep soon. How long had it been? Couple days, for sure. Hmm. 

Later. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> China developed writing around this time, and the Olmecs were just getting started in what’s now Mexico. Most of the other stuff Crowley references is to do with the Late Bronze Age Collapse.


	284. 1179 BC - Pylos, Greece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence, injury, blood, and implied/referenced murder.

_1179 BC. Pylos, Greece._

Crowley swung around a corner in the palace, coughing hard. Someone’d lit a fire, and it was harder these days to just stop breathing. They’d been deep inside, and had to get out before it was too late.

Someone shouted from a doorway behind them, and Crowley skidded to a stop, looking back. 

That was a kid’s voice. 

They should just leave. Smoke billowed from the end of the hall they’d just come from, spreading quickly. Hell was still mad at them, so if they were discorporated now, they might not come back. 

But… that was a kid. 

Crowley cursed and turned, heading for the doorway even as flames licked around the corner into the hall.

The room was small and dark, shadows dancing on the walls. A kid was pressed into the corner, dark eyes wide in terror. They couldn’t be older than six. 

Crowley sank to their knees. “Hey. I need you to trust me, and we’ll get out of here.”

The kid shook their head once, shrinking farther away. 

They scowled. “Look, kid, the palace is burning. D’you want to die, or not? Because I don’t want to, and I _will_ leave you behind if you don’t get over here.”

Something crashed outside, and the kid squeaked, then ran to Crowley, wrapping their arms around their neck. 

“Thought so.” Crowley stood, holding onto the kid as they yanked their veil off. “Put this over your mouth and nose, okay? Won’t do any good if you suffocate.”

The kid did as they were told, and Crowley took a deep breath, then hurried out of the room and down the hall again. 

Almost everyone else was out already, captured in the first attack. Crowley’d stayed put, hidden in snake form. They hadn’t realized the attackers would burn the place down. 

The main exit was cut off, but Crowley found another window without too much trouble. The other people from the palace were huddled outside, surrounded by the attackers—a mixture of Sea People and random humans who’d been displaced by Famine and War. There weren’t as many as there should have been, though. Maybe a third.

Crowley inhaled to speak, the smoke burning in their throat. “I’m going to set you down outside and climb out after, all right?” They tugged the kid’s arms from around their neck and dropped them outside, then clambered through. 

The kid blinked up at them. “Snake?”

“Yeah. Snake.” They held their arms out. “C’mon. Let’s find you someplace safe, all right?” 

The Sea People didn’t exactly have the best reputation for treating captives well these days, and Crowley’d passed through a village on their way here that might be all right. Or, it had been eight months ago. If not, they’d find someplace else.

The kid glanced toward the captives. “What about my mummy?”

“I can’t do anything for her. She might be dead, anyway.”

“What?”

“Shit. Sorry. Look, just come with—”

“Hey! Who’re you?”

Crowley turned slowly to see the new human. She was dressed in mismatched armour, holding a sword, and spoke stilted Greek. 

The kid ran behind Crowley. 

“I said, who’re you?”

“We’re just leaving.” Crowley mustered their best temptation smile. “And it’s just the two of us. We won’t cause any trouble—one measly kid and a skinny old twig.”

“What’s wrong with your eyes? Actually, no.” The human shook her head quickly. “You’re coming with me.”

“Nah.”

The human stepped forward threateningly, brandishing her sword.

Crowley swallowed and motioned for the kid to back away. The human didn’t hold the sword like they knew how to use it, but that was little comfort when they had no weapon or armour at all. They did have one advantage, of course, but they were loathe to use it with the kid around. Wouldn’t want that brain scrambled any more than it already was. 

“Last chance,” the human said. 

“Mmm. Sorry, not happening.”

She swung at them, and Crowley stepped inside the stroke. They moved behind her, grabbing her sword wrist with one hand as their other arm pinned her to them. 

The human snarled, yanking her sword arm free. She swung it around, and Crowley groaned in pain as the blade cut into their thigh. The kid screamed.

The human stepped free and spun to face them. “Surrender, and I won’t kill you.”

“You can’t kill me with that. Eurgh, that bloody _hurtsss_.”

The human stepped forward, brandishing the sword again, but Crowley was ready this time. They snapped their fingers, and she vanished. 

The kid screamed again, then ran up to them. “Are you okay? Did she hurt you?”

“Yeah.” They touched their leg, and their hand came away sticky with blood. “I’ll live, though.” They’d been fatally wounded before, and this wasn’t it, unless it got infected. It’d hurt like Hell in the meantime, but they wouldn’t be discorporated. 

They looked back up at the kid and held out their clean hand. “Let’s get out of here, yeah?”

The kid took their hand. “Okay. What happened to the mean lady?”

“Ehh… not sure. Don’t worry about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Mycenean palace in Pylos did burn around 1180 BC! I couldn’t work out if historians know who attacked, though, so I went with the Sea People for plot’s sake.


	285. 1165 BC - Waset, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for murder.

_1165 BC. Waset, Egypt._

Aziraphale stared at a smoking crater in the floor. Sachael stood beside him, glowing slightly. 

He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. He could feel his hands trembling, so he closed them into fists. He had to control himself. 

“Aziraphale?”

His eyes snapped open and he glared at her. “ **You didn’t have to do that**.” 

Goodness, his voice slipped into a few more layers of reality than it ought to have.

Sachael opened her mouth, then closed it again, looking confused. 

“You didn’t have to smite him,” said Aziraphale in his normal voice. “He was a _human_. An awful, miserable excuse for one, but a human nonetheless.”

“But he hurt all those people!”

Aziraphale stepped in close, vaguely aware of himself glowing as well. “He didn’t deserve that. You could have reported him to the authorities, or his family, or just discorporated him. Even if you did absolutely nothing, his abhorrent conduct would have come back to him in the afterlife. But you smote him.” He sniffed. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

Sachael stepped back and glared back at him. “I am an Angel, Aziraphale.”

“So am I. In fact, I will remind you… as long as you are here on Earth, I am your commanding officer, _Principality_.”

“Maybe I should leave Earth then.”

Aziraphale stepped back and clasped his hands. “Perhaps that would be best.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“I believe said, ‘perhaps that would be best.’ Did I misspeak?”

“No.”

“I thought not.” He gave her a frosty smile. “I will write to Gabriel on my return to my house and request for your transfer elsewhere.” He turned. “Now. I respectfully suggest you remove yourself from the premises.”

Sachael didn’t say anything, but he could see her glow dim from its reflection on the walls. Then footsteps sounded, and the door opened and shut. 

Aziraphale exhaled slowly and closed his eyes. He’d got a bit carried away there, hadn’t he? 

But really, the poor human hadn’t deserved to die that way. Surely the other Angels would understand that. That was the point of humans, wasn’t it? They were redeemable! It was what distinguished them from Angels, or… well. Fallen Angels. 

He opened his eyes again. His own glow had faded, which was some small comfort. He ought to be going soon, then. He had to request Sachael’s transfer, after all. 

And then… perhaps it was time to leave Waset. He’d heard stories from other nations and cities around the Mediterranean, and it sounded as though perhaps they could benefit from the attention of an Angel.


	286. 1157 BC - Tyre, Phoenicia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out I didn't post this on time? But here it is now, albeit a few days late. :)

_1157 BC. Tyre, Phoenicia._

“Kanmi!” Crowley waved to their new temptee, a high-ranked noble in the city. “You look well.”

Kanmi caught sight of them and waved off an attendant who’d been hovering at his elbow before striding through the crowd to where Crowley was waiting at a table. He slid into a seat opposite them. “Thank you. As do you.”

“You flatter.” Crowley pushed a cup of wine across the table to him. “Is that a new robe?”

“Ah! Yes.” Kanmi ran one finger over the hem. The fabric was dyed a deep, vivid purple. “I visited those artisans you recommended. I’m very fond of the colour.”

When Crowley arrived in Tyre a few years back, they’d gone by the dye vats, which stank like nothing they’d encountered before. Except maybe Hastur. Anyway, it stank, and it was so much of a pain to create that all the dye workers were perpetually angry at everything. 

Since then, Crowley’d spent a lot of their time integrating* into Tyrian society in hopes of making the stuff popular. “I’m glad the visit paid off.”

(* A lot of this time had been involved learning the language. Phoenician wasn’t too different from Akkadian, and they’d learned some during their time with the Sea People, but their accent had been noticeably strange at first.)

Kanmi wrinkled his nose. “Those snails were… quite something.”

And _that_ was a temptation well-done. “Mmm. Really?”

“Oh, very much.” Kanmi sighed. “It was worth it, though. I’ve recommended the artisans to a friend of mine.”

“Yeah? Who?”

“I don’t think I’ve mentioned him to you. He’s a royal advisor from Sidon?”

Crowley raised their eyebrows and resisted the urge to smirk. That couldn’t have gone better if they’d planned it themself. Sidon was one of the most powerful cities in the area right now. If the trend caught on there… well. Those snails had another thing coming. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyrian purple was a dye made from murex snails, and was one of the most highly prized dyes in ancient Europe, North Africa, and the Near East. The process to make it was also notoriously smelly, at least in part because of all the rotting snail corpses it produced. Using Tyrian purple dye for fabric may have begun around 1200 BC, or earlier.


	287. 1153 BC - Tyre, Phoenicia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for inadvertent deadnaming and reference to murder.

_1153 BC. Tyre, Phoenicia._

Aziraphale turned a corner onto an avenue at the edge of the island. Humans bustled about with carts of shells and bundles of fabric. A Demonic presence permeated the air, spiking everything with a sense of familiarity.

There was one minor problem, though. There was a stench of decay weighing the air down, seeping into everything. 

One of the building’s doors was open, and he could hear people moving inside. Crawly’s presence seemed to be emanating from there. Unfortunately, the smell was too. 

Aziraphale paused outside the door and leaned inside. “Er… hello?” He spoke Hebrew—it wasn’t terribly far off from Phoenician, and most people he encountered had understood him.

A worker looked up from where they appeared to be making notes. “Hi. Who are you?”

“I’m looking for a acquain—that is, someone. They’re quite tall, and, er… lithe? A bit pointy. And they wear a veil.”

The human nodded. “Stay there—I’ll go get them.”

Aziraphale turned to face outside, twiddling his thumbs and watching people pass by. 

“Aziraphale.”

He turned, smiling in spite of himself. “Crawly! I must say, you look far better than you did when last we parted ways.” He spoke Sumerian to ward off any would-be eavesdroppers. 

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” They smiled crookedly, responding in the same language. “That was… yeah, anyway. What brings you here?”

“Oh, nothing much. I arrived in the city and realized you were nearby, so I thought I’d check up on you.” He paused. “I must say, this whole area is a bit… pungent.”

Crawly grinned in a way that suggested they’d be very excited-looking indeed if their eyes were visible. “I know! It’s been brilliant.”

“I beg your pardon?”

They opened their mouth and closed it twice before speaking. “Ngh. It’s just. A temptation? Not just a temptation, mind—the stuff’s genuinely gorgeous—but it doesn’t hurt to piss off the whole city while I’m at it whenever the wind blows the wrong way.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Really.”

“Demon.” They paused. “Anyway. Waset not doing it for you anymore?”

“Not as such. I had a bit of a… tiff, with someone there, and thought it best if I moved. Particularly with all the nasty business that’s been going on recently.”

Crawly nodded, looking suddenly entirely somber. “Yeah. It’s been… a right nightmare, up this way.”

“Oh dear. Did you get caught up in it?”

“You could say that. Hell wanted in.”

Goodness. Aziraphale swallowed. “You didn’t—that is, were you involved?”

Crawly grimaced. “It’s not—not how… I didn’t want to be.”

“Where—?”

“Mostly with the Sea People. Not during the raiding-and-pillaging bit. Couple hundred years ago, helping them get on their feet. They were more supportive community types, back in the day, if you can believe that.” They paused, then swallowed visibly. “And Athens.”

“What’s Athens?”

“Part of the Mycenaean bit. Big acropolis, just starting to get their feet under them when it all went wrong. The, er. The king died.”

“How dreadful.”

“It was.”

Aziraphale looked down, Crawly’s tone tugging at something uncomfortable in his chest. “And then you came here?”

“Er, not really. Wandered a bit. Nearly got stuck in a burning palace, but that turned out all right. Holed up in a village for a bit. Then I came here.”

“Ah. With your little dye operation.” He sniffed in distaste, though that only made the situation worse. “Well. I’d best be off.”

“Right, yeah. D’you think you’ll be staying here?”

It did smell quite bad… but he was behind on his thwarting. Perhaps he could convince the humans not to use the purple clothing before it was too late. 

He nodded decisively. “Yes, I do. And you?”

“Oh, yeah. Loads to do.”

“Excellent.”

Crawly’s eyebrows rose above their veil.

Aziraphale looked away. “Er, that is—I’m glad you’re staying, so I can better thwart you.”

They laughed. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”

There really was something strange about Crawly’s presence that made him feel odd. Best not think about it, though. “I’m sure. Farewell, Crawly.”

“See you, angel.”


	288. 1137 BC - Tyre, Phoenicia

_1137 BC. Tyre, Phoenicia._

The door to the roof of Crowley’s house creaked as they shut it behind them, then froze. There was a figure sitting at the opposite edge, facing away from them. The moonlight lit up his dense white curls like a halo. 

Crowley swallowed. “Angel?”

“Oh, you’re here!” Aziraphale turned. “I wasn’t entirely sure how to get your attention.”

“You could’ve… knocked. On the door.” They crossed the roof to stand a bit behind him, not sitting yet. “Is something wrong? The business with the prince and the tin merchant wasn’t me.”

“I’m glad to hear it. That isn’t why I’m here, though.”

“Right.” If nothing was immediate, chances were this was a social call. They’d done that once or twice since Aziraphale arrived in Tyre, but he’d never been the one to initiate. The fact that he seemed to be doing it this time was doing _things_ to Crowley’s insides. 

Better say something before it got weird. “D’you want some wine?”

Aziraphale beamed, his dark eyes warm even in the darkness. “That sounds lovely.”

Right. Wine. Crowley could do that. They had an amphora in one hand already. They’d planned on just drinking straight from it, since it was half gone already from the last time they drank with a human. They’d probably have been able to manage it themself. But they obviously couldn’t do that with Aziraphale. 

So. Cups. 

They snapped their fingers, summoning one up, then took the stopper from the amphora and poured the wine, taking care not to splash. Then they passed the cup to Aziraphale. 

He took the cup. “Thank you.”

Crowley took a few steps away and sat a careful distance from the angel, looking out over the city. It was almost completely dark this late at night, everyone else having extinguished their lights and gone to bed. That was most likely why Aziraphale was here, now, though—there wasn’t enough light for a human or Angel to see them.

“I spoke with a most fascinating young man today.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed. A navigator. He can use the stars to know where he is at sea.”

Crowley exhaled slowly. “You hadn’t encountered that before?”

“Conceptually. I hadn’t spoken with someone who practiced it before.”

“I can.”

Out the corner of their eye, they could see Aziraphale glance in their direction. “You can?”

“Yeah.” They set the amphora down and leaned back to look up at the sky. “’S just stars, really.”

“I could never distinguish them.”

Aziraphale’s voice had gone soft, and the annoying, squashy feeling in Crowley’s stomach was getting worse. What was wrong with them?

They coughed. “Guess it helps when you know them already.”

“What?”

“I helped build some of ’em.”

Aziraphale went silent for a moment. “You mean… before you—?”

“No, Satan organized a star-building committee.” Crowley rolled their eyes. “Yes, before.”

“Goodness.” He paused. “I suppose that makes sense.”

Crowley sat up on their elbows, looking at him. “How d’you mean?”

Aziraphale was staring over the houses. “Well, you are quite imaginative.”

“Oh.” They looked away, a smile spreading unbidden over their face. “What about you? Did you get involved in Creation?”

“I’m afraid not. I was made rather on the tail end and was a bit wrapped up preparing for Earth.”

“Mm.” Their memories of that time were fuzzy, but they could recall a general sense of other Angels being made. 

“Did you enjoy it? Crafting the stars?”

Something in Crowley’s chest clenched at that, almost painfully. “Yeah. I did.”

Aziraphale made a sympathetic noise.

“It’s fine. Really. Properly Fallen. No regrets.” It was true, technically. They didn’t regret anything they’d done. They hadn’t done anything wrong in the first place, and that was the bit that was unfair. But of course, they couldn’t tell Aziraphale that.

“I’m so glad to hear it.”

Ugh. Somehow, that was worse. “Anyway. How’s the wine?”

“Scrumptious.”

“Right. Good. Yeah.”

Aziraphale hummed contentedly, which set off whatever it was in Crowley’s chest _again_. 

They looked pointedly up at the stars. There was something very, very wrong with them. This wasn’t a turning stomach. It was something else. What, exactly, it was, wasn’t clear. But it sure as Heaven wasn’t something that was supposed to happen to Demons. 


	289. 1128 BC - Shechem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for inadvertent deadnaming.

_1128 BC. Shechem, Canaan._

Aziraphale plucked a fig from a particularly lush plant and polished the skin on his clothing, then bit into it. The seeds crunched pleasantly, and the flavour burst over his tongue. He hadn’t indulged in some weeks, but he was in a relatively isolated part of a garden, so it seemed safe enough.

He’d finished his assignment in the area that morning. It had taken far less time than he anticipated, in large part because the humans here were susceptible to his influence. He didn’t have to be quite so subtle here as he did in Tyre, for example. 

Under different circumstances, he’d have left already. The trouble was, his present circumstances rendered a hasty return to Tyre… unadvisable. He’d reached an unfortunate conclusion during his most recent discussion with Crawly, right before he was given this assignment. 

The trouble was, he wanted to be friends with them. 

It was utterly preposterous, of course. They were a Demon. He ought to be smiting them, at his own advice. But he’d grown fond of them, and it was as undeniable as it was untenable. 

Crawly wasn’t evil. That was what made it so difficult. He’d thought they were, for a long time, but as he spent more time around them, he grew more familiar with how they really were. How they moved, and spoke. They did bad things, to be sure—corrupted humans, luring them into depravity, violence, lechery—but they didn’t… 

Well, they didn’t seem to enjoy it. 

Not the way he would expect them to. And certainly not the way they enjoyed their own little projects. Take the business with the dye. It was a horrible smell, of course, but it didn’t harm anyone directly. A nuisance, but little more than that. 

Aziraphale swallowed his fig, running a hand over the fabric of his robe. It couldn’t be bad, could it? Being… amicable, with a Demon? After all, they’d been talking for centuries now. It didn’t matter if he was a bit more than ambivalent. 

He was a being of love, after all. And forgiveness. Surely, just because a person also happened to be a Demon, they weren’t inherently unworthy? 

And there was something about Crawly in particular that seemed… well, different from other Demons. It was as simple as that. And more so as time went on. They had an enjoyment of art and wine that went beyond hedonism. He’d seen it, after all. 

All this was not even thinking about the incident after the plagues in Egypt. He’d promised them not to think about it, after all, so he wouldn’t, but he had a distinct sense that what they’d done that night was not an especially Demonic behaviour. 

The evidence all seemed to suggest that engaging in conversation with Crawly wasn’t frowned upon. At least not by the highest authority. If it were, he’d have had difficulties far earlier.

The fact that Aziraphale wished to be their friend was immaterial. 

Wasn’t it?

Well, if it weren’t, he’d have Fallen, so it was. After all, as long as he didn’t engage in or encourage sinful behaviour himself, the time he spent with them was time they weren’t tempting others into it. So really, if he were predisposed to occupy Crawly’s time, it would serve his mission!

Yes, that was it. Aziraphale plucked another fig and began walking again. He’d return to Tyre soon enough, then. His little epiphany need not affect him or Crawly in any way. 

He wouldn’t let it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things!  
> 1\. I messed up and didn't post chapter 286 (1157 BC) a couple of days ago, but it's up now.  
> 2\. I wrote a little [supplemental scene](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28446618) set back in the 2950's. It fits into the same continuity as this story, and I've referenced it in some of these scenes. It's fairly chill-- lots of bickering such. :)


	290. 1116 BC - Tyre, Phoenicia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for inadvertent deadnaming.

_1116 BC. Tyre, Phoenicia._

Crowley sprawled over a stone, basking in the midafternoon sun a respectable distance from Aziraphale. There were humans around, poking through rocks and doing other little human things. Fishing, maybe. A few were just there to enjoy the sea, too—an older woman who’d fallen asleep several paces down the beach and a trio of kids chasing one another in a circle and shrieking. 

The stone was comfortable. Almost absurdly so. Warm. And Crowley’s skin knew not to burn. He’d had to give it a stern talking-to after a few decades with the Mycenaeans and scared it straight. 

“Crawly?”

Crowley cracked his eyes open, propping his head up on one arm so he could see the angel in his peripheral vision. “What?”

“Is there a point to this whole business?”

He shut his eyes again. “Is there a point to anything?”

Aziraphale humphed. “Yes, there is. It’s called the Great Plan. I believe I’ve mentioned it on occasion.”

He sighed. “That’s really not what I meant.”

“In that case, you will have to be more precise.”

Crowley groaned. “I don’t want to.”

Aziraphale tutted. 

There was a point. Crowley just… wasn’t sure if he wanted to make it. But it had been two hundred and fifty years since he changed it. And forty with them both in one city again. He’d have to bring it up sooner or later. 

He didn’t know why he was worried, really. He hadn’t had any trouble telling Hell he’d changed his name. Aziraphale couldn’t react much worse than they had, and Crowley was sober now, which was a not insignificant point in his favour. 

He was worried, though. He meant to tell him when he arrived, but minutes stretched into weeks stretched into decades, and now it just seemed weird to mention it. Especially since he hadn’t that time Aziraphale tracked him down in Waset. 

“Crawly?”

And that was another thing. It felt… _different_ , when Aziraphale called him that. It was kinder, somehow. Crowley would’ve guessed it was an Angel thing if he didn’t remember exactly how squirmy he’d felt when Uriel called him that. Which meant it was just something about Aziraphale, which made it one of the things Crowley didn’t think about. 

“Crawly, really, this is childish.”

“’M not childish.” He sat up on his elbows, nearly looking straight at Aziraphale by mistake before catching himself. “Ngh. Look, there’s this thing…”

“And what might that be?”

“It’s just.” He coughed. “Y’know. A thing.”

Aziraphale’s dissatisfaction was palpable, even without Crowley looking at him. 

Blast, he wasn’t saying it. It was simple. All he had to do was say, ‘I’m called Crowley now.’ Or actually, that made it sound more like a thing that had happened. 

‘I call myself Crowley now’? But that wasn’t assertive enough. 

‘I’m Crowley now,’ was too short, and made his name sound like an adjective. 

‘I’ve changed my name to Crowley,’ was better, but still not _right_ …

“What, exactly, is the 'thing'?”

Shit, he had to say something. What was he going to say? None of the options were right. What if Aziraphale didn’t like ‘Crowley,’ anyway? And now he wasn’t talking again. He just had to say something. Anything!

“I forgot.”

“Really.”

“Er…”

Aziraphale sighed. “Well. If there’s nothing else for me to do?”

“Stay.”

He wasn’t looking right at Aziraphale, but he could see his head turn, just a little. Just enough to betray a reaction. 

Aziraphale was silent for a moment. 

Crowley could hear his pulse in his ears. Or maybe that was the waves. That might make more sense. 

“I beg your pardon?”

Now he felt all… hot. Came of sitting in the sun, probably. What was he bloody thinking, asking Aziraphale to stay? Why the Heaven would he stay? Crowley was being ridiculous. “Forget it, angel. I think—I think I’m drunk.”

“You don’t look it.”

Crowley scrambled to his feet, swaying slightly. “Nah. Definitely drunk, me. Peaky. See you.”

“Crawly, what—”

He set off, picking his way between the rocks. 

Way to bugger it up, Crowley. Now he got to go another forty years before he worked up the nerve to try it again. 

At least it balanced out. Aziraphale might be calling him Crawly, but, well… he was Aziraphale. So there. 


	291. 1108 BC - Tyre, Phoenicia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for inadvertent deadnaming.

_1108 BC. Tyre, Phoenicia_.

Crawly hung over Aziraphale’s shoulder, examining the tablet he was inscribing. “That’s nonsense. You know that’s nonsense, right? ’S just a bunch of nouns.”

“It is not.” Aziraphale set down his stylus delicately. 

He’d spent the last few months immersing himself in Phoenician language and writing to best guide the humans here. This area was emerging from the disasters of the last century, so it seemed a reasonable guess to best communicate in the long-term. 

Crawly, however, seemed to have no such ideas. He spoke it, of course—they were both fluent by now—but he’d shunned literary pursuits. As evidenced by his present ignorance. 

“What is it, then?” Crawly wandered away from where he’d been standing behind Aziraphale to prod the walls. It was endearing, if irritating. 

“It’s writing.”

“I never argued with that.”

Aziraphale huffed. “It’s phonetic.”

“Phon-what?”

“It shows the sounds, not the words. A brilliant bit of human innovation and creativity.” He crossed his arms. “Twenty-two symbols to convey all the words one might wish.”

Crawly raised his eyebrows. “Twenty-two?”

“Yes.”

“Woo-ee. Somebody got overeager.”

Regardless of whatever amicable sentiments Aziraphale might harbour for Crawly, sometimes he remembered exactly why Angels weren’t meant to speak with Demons. “It’s clever.”

“I’m not saying it’s not. Just seems a bit much. Why d’you care, anyway?”

“I am bound to appreciate all the bounties of Earth, and the gifts of humanity.” Aziraphale picked up his stylus and looked down at his work again. “Not that you’d understand.”

Crawly exhaled sharply. “Right. Didn’t you spend a millennium after they came up with writing thinking it was sinful?”

Drat. “It was considerably less than a millennium. Besides, that was over fifteen hundred years ago.”

“So?”

“It’s a moot point.”

“I’m just saying, you’re just a wee bit hypocritical there.”

Aziraphale paused his work again. “I am not hypocritical.”

Crawly scoffed and turned to look at him skeptically.

“I am not!” He wasn’t. Not really. After all, whenever he… revised his positions, he modified his behaviours accordingly. It wasn’t his fault if Crawly couldn’t see the nuances of his moral viewpoint.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, angel.”

“I beg your pardon.”

Crawly rolled his eyes. “It’s a saying.”

Aziraphale sniffed and directed his attention back to the document he was copying. “Seems an awfully suggestive phrase,” he muttered.

“I—that’s not—that’s _really_ not what it means.”

“I suppose you’d know better than I.”

Crawly spluttered long enough for Aziraphale to finish his tablet and move on to the next. He allowed himself a pleased smile as he picked the next one and started in before Crawly spoke again. 

“Why scribe work, anyway?”

“I couldn’t say. I appreciate the elegance, I suppose. And it’s unparalleled as a tool for good.”

“As a tool for bad, too.”

“It fosters communication and the preservation of knowledge for posterity. Consider Moses—he received tablets from the Almighty directing him in how to best go about living virtuously. _And_ , writing is a thing of beauty in its own right. A human creation akin to the naming of the animals.”

“It’s just another _thing_. You didn’t get like this when they invented the spinny wotsits for making pots. Or domesticating the humpy things. Or—”

“Camels.”

“What?”

“Your ‘humpy things.’”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. What was I saying?”

“I haven’t the faintest,” said Aziraphale, though he could, technically speaking, have recited the last few words of Crawly’s tirade verbatim. He wasn’t lying. He simply never specified what it was that he hadn’t the faintest of. In this case, he hadn’t the faintest idea why he would allow Crawly to continue his heretical speech.

“Anyway. What I’m trying to say is, writing’s not…”

Aziraphale twisted in his seat to glare at him. 

“Fine. Fine, you win.”

He smiled and looked back at his work. “You see.”

Crawly made an annoyed sound that was half hiss, half growl, but didn’t argue any more. 

One Demonic misrepresentation of the relative moral worth of literacy, successfully thwarted. 


	292. 1095 BC - Tyre, Phoenicia

_1095 BC. Tyre, Phoenicia._

Crowley scowled at the plant he was pruning. He could’ve sworn he took this particular clump of wayward leaves off before, yet here it was anyway. He cut it off, then narrowed his eyes at it. The plant didn’t respond in any way. 

He grunted and moved on, finishing up the plant, then setting his pruning knife on a bench nearby and laying down in the middle of the garden path. It was the middle of the night anyway, so there wouldn’t be any humans around. Night time was better for precision work, anyway, since he could have his veil off. 

The garden wasn’t half bad, really. Crowley’s predecessor left it in decent shape. He’d had a learning curve when he first arrived working how Phoenician plants worked differently from Egyptian ones, but that kept it from being boring. And it didn’t hurt that the little edge of new information kept him distracted better. 

That was why he was here tonight, really. Up until a few hours ago, he’d been sitting in Aziraphale’s house drinking some of the best wine he’d ever had. Whatever else could be said about him, the angel had taste. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy it. Crowley enjoyed it. A lot. It made something feel warm in his chest, in a way he hadn’t felt in ages. Reminded him of Mohenjo-Daro, and Raghavan’s family. 

But that was part of the problem, wasn’t it? 

He’d been noticing it getting worse lately, too. Just this evening, he’d caught himself watching Aziraphale’s hands for what might have been multiple minutes. It was embarrassing. At least Aziraphale hadn’t noticed—he wasn’t sure what he’d have done, then. 

And it wasn’t just Aziraphale’s physical form. It was him, proper. Crowley’d listened to him expound on literary innovations for hours that night. Literary innovations! Crowley didn’t care one little bit about literary innovations. But the angel’s eyes lit up when he talked about them, and Crowley hadn’t had the heart to interrupt him. Argue with him, sure, but interrupt? Not happening. 

It was probably the ‘friend’ thing. They were friends now, weren’t they? They met up three times the previous year, which was enough to be friends in Crowley’s books. 

There was still the hereditary enemy bit. Aziraphale kept mentioning that. More, lately. They’d be having a grand old time, and then Crowley would say something, and Aziraphale would get a sad look in his eyes and bring it up.

Crowley didn’t get that. They weren’t really hurting anything by talking to one another. They both knew what they were. It didn’t actually change anything to bring it up. It was just Aziraphale being a wet blanket. 

Anyway. That was part of why Crowley was gardening. To take his mind off the whole thing. And it helped, this time! When he’d noticed he was getting too drunk to trust himself mucking around in his brain, he sobered up and excused himself to come here and prune.

And he was only regretting it a little bit. Mostly when Aziraphale made an expression just a few degrees off from ‘disappointed.’ 

Crowley groaned and sat up again, leaning over his knees. He should head home soon. The sky was a dark grey now, and the humans would get up sooner or later. He’d done his job. And he had to be back in the afternoon to meet his assistant who did the watering, anyway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that I turned on comment moderation. I very much enjoy comments and intend to accept the vast majority, but got into some unpleasantness on a different story, so I wanted to be able to keep an eye on things. :)


	293. 1090 BC - Tyre, Phoenicia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for inadvertent deadnaming.

_1090 BC. Tyre, Phoenicia_.

Aziraphale knocked timidly at the gate to the garden where Crawly worked. “Pardon me,” he called. “Is anyone there?”

A human child poked their head out from a shrub. “Who wants to know?”

“My name is Aziraphale,” he said. “I’m looking for the head gardener?”

The human’s eyes went wide and they extricated themself from the bush, snapping twigs in their haste. They paused a few paces away from the gate and stared. 

Aziraphale wasn’t entirely new to being stared at. It rather came with the territory when one had white hair and didn’t quite look or act how one expected a man to be, or indeed with being an Angel. This staring, however, seemed different. A bit prickly and uncomfortable.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but is the head gardener here?”

The human shook their head. “No. He’s probably sleeping.”

“Ah.”

“He does that a lot.”

“I am aware.” Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Well, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, please tell him I came by.”

“I will.”

He turned to leave.

“Wait!” The human ran up to the gate. “Don’t go. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Aziraphale paused and frowned down at the human. “I beg your pardon?”

“From the boss.” They looked down. “You’re his angel, aren’t you? Aziraphale.”

“His—I am not _his_ Angel.”

The human shrank in on themself. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

Aziraphale huffed. This was not at all how he intended this afternoon to go. 

“It’s just. He talks about you.”

“Does he.”

“Mm-hmm. When he’s gardening. Especially the figs.”

“Why on Earth would he—” Oh. He’d given him a fig once, hadn’t he? When he was visiting the Egyptian court with Abraham, Sarah, and Lot. 

Crawly remembered that?

“He says you like figs.” The child shrugged. “I don’t know why else. I’m Danel. If you were wondering.”

“Pleased to meet you, Danel.” Aziraphale looked past them, eyes skipping over the plants. There was a fig tree there, standing proudly in a central position. It looked well cared-for. 

Before he quite knew what he was doing, Aziraphale had opened the gate and was walking toward the tree. They were in the off-season, so the figs weren’t ripe yet, but the leaves were healthy, and he could smell the damp soil. 

“He’s quite good at it, isn’t he?”

“Good at what?” Danel had followed him to the tree, standing a few paces back.

“Gardening.” Aziraphale rested a hand on the bark. Warmth flooded his chest, and he recoiled.

What exactly was he doing? This was ridiculous. It was just some—some tree. It needn’t provoke an emotional response. He was done with emotions, after all. And just what would he say if Crawly returned? 

He stepped away from the tree.

Danel blinked up at him with wide, dark eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Quite well, thank you.” He exhaled. “Now.” 

He had to get to the bottom of whatever it was Crawly was telling this poor, innocent child. Surely whatever motive he had to bring up his Adversary at his human workplace was nefarious. So Aziraphale had to determine what, exactly, that motive was.

He focused his gaze on Danel. “Hello, dear.”

“Hi?”

“What, exactly, has your ‘boss’ been telling you, hmm?”

“Oh. Lots of things. Um, last week he was talking about Babylon. He said there was a tower there and that you made friends there. And—”

“Did he say ‘friends’?”

If he had, Aziraphale would have to have a very firm discussion with him. Regardless of his own feelings on the matter, friendship was absolutely out of the question. It wouldn’t work, not officially. Demons weren’t renowned for their merits as friends. 

“I guess he didn’t say it that way. He just said you started talking a lot. And helping to learn things.”

That was accurate, at least. “I see. Go on, then. What else?”

“He said you met in a garden. And that you gave your sword to a pregnant lady. And that you let him stay with you when it rained.”

“Goodness.” That was ages ago now. Millennia. He hadn’t realized that Crawly remembered it. For him, the memory was rather overshadowed by everything that came after. Hastur and Cain and Eridu and the like. 

“Are you okay?”

Aziraphale glanced back down at Danel. “Oh. Yes.” He exhaled, and looked up at the sun. “My word, look at the time. I’d best be going.”

“Should I tell him you were here?”

“Better not.” He could find him in a few weeks once he’d properly sorted through and filed away everything he learned from this discussion.

“Okay. Bye!”

“Good-bye.”

Aziraphale hurried out the gate and let it swing shut behind him, then bustled out into the street again, intent upon putting as much distance between himself and that garden as possible. 

What a strange conversation. Why would Crawly talk about him? And to a human, no less! Perhaps he was up to something, though Aziraphale was loathe to assume as much. He’d have to keep an eye on him to make sure he didn’t try anything. 

Yes, that would sort things out. Just be a bit more vigilant. 


	294. 1078 BC - Tyre, Phoenicia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for inadvertent deadnaming.

_1078 BC. Tyre, Phoenicia._

Crowley paced back and forth a few doors down from Aziraphale’s house. The fig tree was having an unusually productive harvest, and he’d exhausted the usual methods for getting rid of them. So he didn’t really have another option. Unless he wanted to dry them, which was a lot of effort. 

Never mind he could snap his fingers and miracle them dry, but… anyway. He needed somebody else to take them off his hands, and Aziraphale was the obvious solution. 

Trouble was, Aziraphale wasn’t home. And he could leave and try later, but going to the angel’s house twice in a day seemed like a lot. Like it might _mean_ something. Which was very much not an option. 

He turned to begin the pace toward the house again, and froze. 

Aziraphale stood in front of his house, one hand raised halfway to a wave. “Crawly? Is that you?”

Problem solved. 

Crowley resisted the urge to grin and joined Aziraphale, following him into the house without any more words exchanged. 

It was dark inside with the door shut, and darker still when Aziraphale closed the windows. It wouldn’t actually stop any prying occult or aetherial eyes if they happened to be nearby, but Aziraphale said it helped his peace of mind, so Crowley’d stopped arguing with it a few decades back.

Aziraphale lit a lamp, flames painting his brown skin in shades of bronze and burnished gold. He bent down to examine it, fastidious to a fault. Crowley had seen him go through this exact process dozens of times now, from the way he struck the flame to the way he pursed his lips. 

Blast, Crowley was doing it again. 

He shook himself just as Aziraphale straightened up and looked at him. “Now. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Crowley held out the basket of figs. “The tree had a bunch. Thought you might be interested. I didn’t want them to rot.”

Aziraphale took the basket carefully and looked inside. His face lighting up. “My goodness, these look lovely. You grew them yourself?”

“Yeah. I mean, I used miracles ’cause they don’t really cooperate otherwise, and I cut off the wrong branch by mistake once and had to stick it back on. But yeah.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

Crowley grimaced. “Not really. I made up a fancy name for them and sell them at a higher price than they’re worth.”

“You’re not selling these.”

“Market’s flooded right now. Nobody wanted them.”

“I see.” Aziraphale pulled one out and appraised it. “You don’t want any?”

“I had one at the beginning of the season. Don’t really like food, though.”

“What a shame.” Aziraphale set it back down, then put the basket gently on the table. “You know, I recently acquired a rather lovely bottle of wine from the mainland.”

Crowley swallowed. On one hand, drinking with his angel sounded like exactly how he wanted to spend the rest of the day. On the other… he did have work to do at the garden, technically, and a temptation. Not to mention that Aziraphale was looking at him like _that_ , and leaving seemed like the smart thing to do with that going on. 

He managed to shake his head before he changed his mind. “I have some stuff to take care of.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale smiled. “You’d better do it, then.”

“Yeah.” Crowley turned slowly toward the door. “Ciao.”

“Farewell, Crawly.”

Crowley really needed to say something about the name. But he was already leaving now, so. He stepped outside and shut the door behind him. He could feel a faint pang of divine power as Aziraphale bolted it. Then Crowley walked toward his garden, whistling, and only made one new pothole in the road on the way. 


	295. 1072 BC - Tyre, Phoenicia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for inadvertent deadnaming.

_1072 BC. Tyre, Phoenicia._

Aziraphale watched passengers from the most recent ship from Israel streaming onto land. He’d sensed an Angelic presence approaching and had a hunch they were on this boat. They didn’t feel like a very powerful Angel, to put it indelicately, so he was hopeful he’d be able to convince them he wasn’t in need of any assistance. After all, Tyre was only growing more prominent. Surely that was a point in his favour. 

And it didn’t hurt that the entire city was a bit of an acquired taste. Or smell, really. 

The second-to-last person to leave the ship came in the form of an old woman. She looked a bit like the Israelites, if one ignored the way the freckles on her tan skin glittered like gemstones. Aziraphale could sense her aura, too—she was definitely an Angel.

He met her before she joined the crowd. “Hello, there.”

The Angel looked up at him. “Hello.”

“Do you have a message for me? Some assignment, perhaps?”

She shook her head. “I’m just assigned to general blessings. They don’t trust me with anything else.”

“I see.” He motioned to the side. “Come this way. We need to speak somewhere a bit less crowded.”

He led her out of the busiest part of the docks, into a corner off the main road, then turned to face her. “Now, then. I am the Principality Aziraphale. Who are you?”

“I’m Fenaliel.”

Just an Angel, then—no other rank. All the better. 

“I see. And you’ve come from Israel?”

“There are a lot of us there, since guidance is easier. I just have a few more years on my post, and then I can go back to Heaven.”

“I’m not sure this is the place to do it,” he said. “I’m afraid I have things managed here.” 

Her face fell. “Are you sure? I won’t cause any trouble. I’m good at fighting Demons. Or, I guess you’re a Principality, so you’d be better at it…”

That settled it. He had Crawly effectively neutralized here, and it wouldn’t do for another Angel to scare him off. 

Aziraphale sighed. “It’s really not worth the trouble here. The smell alone is not pleasant.”

“The smell?”

He blinked. She wasn’t breathing, was she? No wonder she wasn’t having much luck. “Er, yes. It works best if you inhale through your nose.”

Fenaliel looked confused, but inhaled, then promptly began coughing.

Aziraphale waited awkwardly until the coughing fit subsided. If she were human, he would attempt to assist by hitting her back, but that seemed a bit odd considering she had wings, so he didn’t. 

When she’d recovered, Fenaliel’s eyes were a bit watery. “I see what you mean. The rest of Earth doesn’t smell that bad, then?”

“Not at all.” He paused. “Why don’t you try Byblos? I hear they’re doing quite well.”

She nodded. “I guess. Thank you, Aziraphale.”

“It’s no trouble.” 

He escorted her out of the alley and back to the docks, then helped her negotiate passage to Byblos with a sea captain with a particularly thick Phoenician accent. Then he waved her off and began walking home. 

He turned onto the street that led to his house, and stopped. 

Crawly leaned against another house, watching him warily. Or, at least Aziraphale assumed he was watching him—his veil hid his eyes. 

“Hello, Crawly.”

“Aziraphale.” He crossed his arms. “Who was that, then?”

“An Angel named Fenaliel. I persuaded her that it was in both of our best interests if she conducted her blessings somewhere else.”

Crawly nodded once, swallowing visibly. “Right. Yeah. That’s—yeah.” 

“Indeed.”

Crawly ducked his head. “I’ll go, then. She’s gone, then?”

“To my knowledge, yes.”

“Right.” He pushed off the wall and began walking toward Aziraphale, with the apparent intention of passing him and continuing onward. 

Instead of doing so, though, Crawly stopped slightly in front and to the side of Aziraphale, so he could make eye contact through the veil without appearing to have noticed him. 

He inhaled, quietly enough Aziraphale was certain no one else could have heard. But he didn’t say anything. He just stood there. 

Aziraphale was suddenly aware of his own heart, which was a strange sensation, to say the least.

Then Crawly kept walking out of his line of sight. 

Aziraphale exhaled. Goodness. What a strange experience. Perhaps he was more rattled by Fenaliel’s visit than he’d thought. 


	296. 1055 BC - Tyre, Phoenicia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for inadvertent deadnaming.

_1055 BC. Tyre, Phoenicia._

Crowley held out his cup for Aziraphale to pour wine from an amphora. It was only the second round of the evening, so he had a while to go before he was properly drunk. Still, the wine he’d already had was enough to put a comfortable fuzz on everything.

“There we are, then.” Aziraphale finished pouring and moved back to refill his own cup. “Who was this new human you mentioned?”

“Right, yeah. Mm.” Crowley gulped down a solid portion of the wine in his cup, then set it down so he could gesticulate properly without getting wine everywhere. “Really nice kid. And I mean nice. Y’know. Proper—proper goody-two-shoes. Bit like you, really. Not as good a conversationalist, though. Anyhow. She’s called Elissa, and she’s got this dye company. Thing is, her husband’s a bit—he’s not so good these days. Ran afoul of a bloke with a knife a couple years back. Point is, he’s not in great shape to run the business all the time.”

“How terrible.”

“Yeah. Not fun.” Crowley took another sip of wine and adjusted his position so one leg was over the side of the chair. “But, she’s being too good about it.”

“ _Really_ , Crawly,” said Aziraphale, though most of the feeling was directed at his cup.

Crowley chuckled. “Yeah. So, ’m tempting her. Just, y’know, little stuff. Take care of yourself. Don’t have to give everything up all the time. Shout at your employees once in a while. Y’know.”

Aziraphale looked up, his expression the very picture of astonishment. “Shout at her employees!”

“Once in a while. Only when they mess stuff up.”

He tutted, side-eyeing Crowley, then took a sip of his own wine. 

“What are you doing these days, then? How’s your merchant bloke you’re guiding?”

Aziraphale set his cup down, dabbing a bit of wine off his lip with his thumb before settling back to look at Crowley thoughtfully. “You know, he’s really doing quite well.”

Crowley finished his cup of wine and reached to pour himself more. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale sniffed, straightening out his tunic a bit. “He gave a rather large portion of his assets to a nice young lady who lost her home in a fire.”

“Rotten luck for him.” He refilled Aziraphale’s cup too before sitting back. 

“It’s progress. I’d have thought you’d be pleased for me.”

“Ngh. I mean, I am. Just. Y’know. I’ve got to keep you on your toes. Can’t very well go around agreeing when you do something good, now can I? Could get in a load of trouble like that. Proper trouble.”

“Oh. I suppose so.”

“Yeah.” Crowley finished another sip of wine and smacked his lips. He was definitely getting drunker now. Was ‘drunker’ a word? More drunk. Anyway, whatever the word was for it, he was going that way. Took more to do it, these days. 

But it was taking. For sure. He could tell because he’d been watching Aziraphale without blinking for a lot longer than he’d have let himself if he hadn’t been. Probably ought to change that.

Crowley focused on his cup again instead. “Anyway. New clothes?”

Aziraphale looked down at himself. “Yes, quite. It became a bit tedious explaining why I wore Egyptian clothing. Besides, I met a rather kind weaver who was in need of financial security, so it seemed the right thing to do.”

“Of course it did.” Crowley sighed. “Anyway.”

“What?”

“Hmm?”

“Anyway, what?”

“I dunno.” He sniffed and sat farther down in the chair. “Just. Tryin’ to make conversation.”

Aziraphale nodded as though he understood exactly what Crowley was saying. It wasn’t especially convincing anymore. Had been once. Maybe around the Flood? Didn’t really matter these days. Point was, Crowley knew his faces now. Could tell what which ones meant. 

Bless it, he was drunk. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back in hopes of getting his head unfogged. Technically, he could sober up, but that wasn’t any fun. 

“Crawly?”

“Mmm?” He looked up to see Aziraphale watching him intently from the other side of the room. 

And there was that feeling again. It wasn’t his favourite. All… warm, and… It was hard to say. It wasn’t pleasant. It was about Aziraphale, that was for sure. Which was, like. Great. Big deal. Weird, fuzzy feelings about an Angel. 

His angel, though. 

Oh. Fucking shit. Fucking… fuck. 

He. He wasn’t in love with him, was he? 

He couldn’t be. Not possible. Demons? _Love_? Nah. Not happening. 

“Crawly? Are you quite well? You look a bit—”

“Yup.” Crowley stood up, completely sober. “Yeah. I just, er. Remembered. I left the fire burning… in my house. Bye.”

“Crawly, what—are you certain that—”

Crowley snapped his fingers, then landed in a heap in his house.

How the Heaven was he meant to—to deal with that? With _Aziraphale_. 

Of course, he was… he wasn’t unattractive. And he was clever. And he was… he was nice to Crowley. Even though he was a Demon. 

Crowley slumped all the way to the floor and covered his face with his hands, hissing. 

In love. 

With Aziraphale. 

Not possible. Nope. Not dealing with that. 

He just… wouldn’t be, yeah? That would work. He’d just… notice when he was feeling… _that_ … and not do it.

And then it would be fine, and he could get on with his normal, properly evil life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elissa is an actual Phoenician name, according to this one library’s website. I did not have the energy to comb through primary sources while writing this to double-check.


	297. 1049 BC - Tyre, Phoenicia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for inadvertent deadnaming.

_1049 BC. Tyre, Phoenicia._

“So I’m on the hill, right? Yeah. And this kid—Cyneburg. She’s been talking it up. So much. And then we get over the hill. An’ it’s just… sticks. Big sticks, mind, but they’re just sticks!”

“One moment.” Aziraphale took a sip of wine and held up a finger, frowning. “The circles were… sticks?”

“Yeah. Buncha sticks. Big ol’ circle. All—” Crawly waved a hand vaguely as he took a drink of his own wine— “All mushy.”

“The sticks were… mushy?” That didn’t sound quite right. Aziraphale had never seen a mushy stick. Or rather, he had, but it certainly hadn’t been a significant monument of any sort. 

Crawly hissed. “No, the sticks weren’t mushy, angel. The _ground_ was. I said that, didn’t I?”

“I don’t believe you did.”

“Bugger.” Crawly sniffed. “Ground was mushy. All… grass. You’ve seen grass, right? Load of… green. On the ground.”

Aziraphale nodded. He’d been rather surprised when he saw that the first time, since he was accustomed to sand and dust and the like. Or even scrubby grass. Certainly not big coats of green like they had other places. Although… “Grass isn’t mushy, is it?”

“Nah. ’S just a bunch of… dirt-hair. Fur, maybe. Fur’s not mushy.”

“Grass… is fur?”

“Dirt-fur. Think so.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I thought it was a fungus.”

“A what?”

“A fungus. Like mushrooms.”

“ _Fur_ ,” said Crawly emphatically. 

“It’s not fur, you fiend.”

“’S not a fungus, either. Definitely not a fungus. Tha’s rici—cudi—not the thing that it is. Sssilly.”

Aziraphale scowled. “It’s the truth,” he said primly.

“Is not.”

“It is.”

Crawly rolled his eyes. “Grass is not a fungus, Aziraphale, for the last time. I can’t believe—” He froze.

Aziraphale blinked. “Crawly?”

“Er. Yeah. Hmm?” He unfroze and took a drink of his wine. “Ngh. I’m fine. Just. Bloody. Yeah. Why’re you looking like that?”

Aziraphale sighed. Crawly had been acting a bit strangely the last five or six years. Of course, they had only spoken perhaps a dozen times in that interval, but the point stood…

At least there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with him. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if there were something amiss. Not because they were friends, exactly, but he was… he was rather accustomed to knowing that Crawly was out there somewhere. It had been three thousand years, after all. 

“’Ziraphale?”

“Hmm?” Drat, he hadn’t been listening. “Indubitably.”

“Indub—agh. What?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry yourself.” Aziraphale smiled. “Would you like a spot more wine?”

“Yeah, thanks.” 


	298. 1043 BC - Tyre, Phoenicia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for inadvertent deadnaming.

_1043 BC. Tyre, Phoenicia._

Crowley pushed the door to his house open and slammed it shut, then bolted it. Whoever had the bright idea of domesticating horses was lucky they were dead. Otherwise, they’d have one pissed Demon to answer to. 

He’d just got back a temptation down in Israel. And now, he was very, very ready to sit down and not think about horses. If he didn’t have another, more important grudge against God, horses would be at the top of the list. 

He slumped down into a seat and snapped his fingers to clean his clothes. It wasn’t perfect, but it got most of the smell off.

A wave of divine energy washed through the room, and Crowley sat up hurriedly. “Bloody Heaven, angel.”

“Oh, hello. I just wanted to pop in since you’re back.” 

“’Course you did.” Crowley slumped back and closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at Aziraphale. He’d found that not looking at him helped with the thing. 

“How was the assignment?”

He could hear him bumbling around. Clay tablets clacked—probably notes from Crowley’s assignment he’d sent back ahead of him by magic. Aziraphale tutted. 

“Fine,” Crowley said finally. “Y’know, people don’t really break into other people’s houses.”

“I didn’t break anything.” 

“That’s not the point.”

“That what, pray tell, is the point?”

Crowley groaned. 

See, this was the problem. Every blasted time. He’d be there minding his own business, and then Aziraphale would waltz in, and say something, and he’d get the feeling in his chest all over again. It was bloody annoying.

“Crawly, if you don’t say what the point was, I won’t be able to appropriately respond to your concerns.”

“The point isn’t the breaking things. The point is you, in my house, without asking. _Or_ warning me.”

The noises stopped. 

Crowley could practically hear the offended pout. 

He opened his eyes and looked up. Yeah, that pout. Ugh. “Look, I’m not—it’s not—” He closed his eyes again and leaned back. 

He was being ridiculous. There was no properly Demonic way to say, ‘I’m not actually mad at you for breaking into my house because I, for some inexplicable reason, am glad to see you after doing a miserable assignment with far too many horses involved.’ It just wasn’t possible. And didn’t help with the whole stopping-himself-being-potentially-in-love thing. 

“’S fine,” he mumbled finally.

“Oh, jolly good.” The fiddling noises started again. “Although, it was rather simple. Perhaps it would be prudent to put up wards? I’d hate for you to run afoul of a less…”

“Of a different Angel.” It was a good point, really. He ought to put up wards.

“Quite.” 

“D’you have… wards up?”

“Hmm?” 

Blast. Of course he didn’t—Crowley hadn’t felt any resistance going into Aziraphale’s house. 

The noises grew more harried. “Goodness. Did you _really_ write this report, dear?”

“Mmm?” Crowley looked up. Then he blinked once, and bit back a string of curses. 

Dear. 

Fucking ‘dear.’

He was feeling things. Too many things. Why the Heaven had he thought he could stay in Tyre? Of course he couldn’t bloody stay in Tyre.

“The report,” Aziraphale said, oblivious to Crowley’s distress. “It’s rather rude.”

“Demon.” He sat up properly. “Actually. What do you know, look at the time? Don’t you have a guidance quota for the day?”

“I’ve done two already.”

“Not enough though, is it? Not for a—a—an angel like you. Always so bloody nice and dependable and—and virtuous. All the time. Gotta do some more guidance, yeah?”

“What?”

“Yeah. Go on, then. Besides, I’m knackered. Too many horses.” He stood up and went to open the door. “I’ll probably just sleep for six—hundred years.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Six hours.”

“That’s not—”

“Decades. I meant decades.” He ushered Aziraphale out. 

“Crawly, really.”

“Yeah, thanks for checking on me. Ciao!” 

He slammed the door and turned around.

Maybe he’d overreacted. 

But really! What sort of self-respecting Angel called a Demon ‘dear?’

He couldn’t stay in Tyre if Aziraphale was going to call him ‘dear.’ Had to… find someplace else. Get it out of his system. Maybe he could court a human. Hadn’t tried that before. Or maybe a lot of humans. Start with a scribe and work his way away. 

Or maybe that was a terrible idea. 

He could go back to Egypt, maybe. But Aziraphale could follow him there. Farther was better. Though he didn’t want to go _that_ far… 

Ugh. He could sort that out later. For now, he was going to take a bath and have some wine, and pretend horses didn’t exist. 


	299. 1027 BC - Gibeah, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for inadvertent deadnaming and references to both torture and the Flood.

_1027 BC. Gibeah, Kingdom of Israel, Canaan._

Aziraphale surveyed the city from his position sitting against a tree on a hill. It was… nice, being back, in a way. He was having to readjust his manner of speaking from Phoenician back to Hebrew. And it was lovely seeing how far the humans had come.

He just… wished he didn’t have to have come back this way.

The last time he saw Crawly had been sixteen years ago. They’d been having one of his strange little episodes, and threatened to sleep for sixty years. Naturally, Aziraphale had gone back to check up on them after a decade or so, but Crawly had just been… gone. 

It was quite unpleasant. Aziraphale had been… a tad more emotional than he’d expected. 

The trouble was, he’d thought they were _past_ that. Crawly had told him when they were leaving after the Flood, for goodness’ sake, and that was nearly two thousand years ago! And when they left Egypt without warning, at least they’d left a note. 

But they hadn’t left anything this time.

Once, Aziraphale would have told himself it was because they were a Demon. But… Crawly didn’t quite act in the manner he would expect of a Demon, as a rule. Certainly not how other Demons did. Which was, of course, why Aziraphale was able to accept their presence. 

Crawly was still on Earth, which was some small comfort. He was certain of it. He knew they were out there, somewhere. And likely not even very far, in the scheme of things. On the continent, certainly. Which meant that Hell hadn’t recalled him.

He’d grown more concerned, of late, by Hell. Of course, it was Hell, so perhaps that was a bit silly. But he hadn’t realized they’d be so cruel as to mistreat their own. They tortured the humans, of course. That was mandated by the Divine Plan. Sometimes, though, when he and Crawly were talking, something about Hell would come up. When that happened, Crawly got an awful, fearful look in their eyes and changed the subject. It was worrying, to say the least. 

And, quite honestly, Aziraphale didn’t like it. It wasn’t right. Crawly didn’t deserve it, whether they were a Demon or not. They did their job, however unpleasant that might be. To—to _hurt_ them like that, was simply vile. 

Demonic, one might say. And that was the rub, wasn’t it? He oughtn’t be surprised by Demons being cruel. Of course they were cruel, they were Demons. 

And yet. 

Aziraphale sighed heavily and straightened up more. Perhaps he ought to actually go into town. He wasn’t doing anything of merit up here, after all.

Musing after the whereabouts of a Demon was hardly a condoned or productive pastime. 

Besides, it wasn’t really an issue. Crawly was safe and well somewhere. They hadn’t had contact from Hell in decades, to Aziraphale’s knowledge. Beyond tablets with assignments and their regular reports, of course. 

And Crawly could find him again. If they really wanted to. 

Oh dear.

Aziraphale swallowed. There was something there. A half-formed thought, and hurt welling up in his throat. 

Well. 

He was here now. Gabriel sent him instructions to come here, and he’d caught the first ship from Tyre that agreed to transport his collection of scrolls and tablets. He wasn’t entirely sure what, exactly, he was meant to do, but… he was here now.

And it was just as well. Tyre wasn’t an especially pleasant place to live these days. The smell alone was a rather strong deterrent. Not to mention his associations with said scent, and in turn the city at large. 

But he was leaving that behind. Albeit reluctantly, but… it was for the best, wasn’t it? 

Yes, it was. After all, he had to be in Israel for the next component of the Great Plan. And it was best he be totally acclimated to the area by then.

That was that. 

He stood and began walking back toward the city. He would do his job. Crawly could do as they wished, and it needn’t affect him.

Not even if they left without saying good-bye. 


	300. 1016 BC - Napata, Kush

_1016 BC. Napata, Kush._

“Come on, it’s a good idea. And it would help you support the family, wouldn’t it?”

The human he was tempting pressed her lips together, frowning. “I don’t think so. My husband and I are supporting us very well as it is, between his farming and my maths. And it doesn’t seem—” Crowley didn’t catch the last word. 

“It doesn’t seem what?”

She said it again.

Ugh. And he’d thought he’d got the language down. Temptations were so much harder when you were still learning. “What’s that mean?”

“The right thing to do—” another word he didn’t catch— “rules about good and bad.”

“Right. Thanks.” Like ‘ethical,’ maybe. He’d have to remember that one. 

“You’re welcome.” She sighed. “Listen, you seem like a nice boy. What are you doing?”

“What?” Boy. Boy! He wasn’t a ‘boy.’ Of course, she did look considerably older than him by human standards, her coiled hair mostly grey. But that wasn’t the point! He was almost three thousand years old, and that wasn’t even counting time before time. 

“I mean, you’re clearly new in town, and bright. It’s a big city. You don’t need theft to get along any more than I do.”

Great. Just. Absolutely brilliant. A human telling him not to thieve. 

She laughed. “Why not come get a bite to eat? You look like skin and bones.”

The nerve. 

Still, it gave him more time to salvage the temptation. Though he would have to eat… “Sure.”

“Good. I just have to finish up some—” a word he didn’t get— “on the way. You don’t mind, do you? We can talk.”

“Okay. What’s—” he repeated the word.

“Little tasks. Jobs? You do them in public.”

“Right. Thanks.” Like ‘errands.’ 

He was beginning to think he should’ve stopped in Egypt. It had seemed like a mess, though, when he was passing through. 

She nodded decisively and turned to lead him away from the stall.

The nod had a strangely Aziraphale-like quality about it.

“Now, then,” she said as they walked. “What brings you here?”

“Er. Things, y’know. Life.”

“If I wanted an answer that useless, I wouldn’t have bothered asking. We don’t get people from north of Egypt often here. Traders, at most.”

Why did humans have to be like this?

“It’s… I’ve been going through a lot. Hel—that is, my family has been cross with me. And I had a friend, who… it got complicated.” 

He wasn’t in love with him. It wasn’t possible. He just had to work out what else this was, and sort it out.

“So you traveled… how far?”

“From Phoenicia. It’s at the opposite end of… er. Well, when the Egyptian empire reached all the way down here, like two hundred years ago, Phoenicia was at the opposite end of that from here.”

“How long did it take you?”

“Eh… ten years?” It hadn’t really taken that long to travel, but he got distracted once or twice.

“Ten…” She stopped and turned on him. “Young man.”

“I’m really not a young man.”

“You should go talk to your friend.”

Crowley scoffed. “No. No way.” Not a chance in Hell. Or out of Hell. Not a chance. Not one itty-bitty little scrap of a chance was he letting Aziraphale talk to him with his—bloody, glowing hair and strong arms and eyes that lit up whenever he talked about— 

Point was, not happening.

He shook his head to clear it. There had to be better temptations in this city. “I’m out. You—yeah.” He turned and stalked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to be a nerd, but Kush, for the record, is really cool. They had super early antibiotics and advanced math, among other things. If you ever feel like learning about a random ancient civilization for a few hours, I'd recommend it.


	301. 1011 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for inadvertent deadnaming.

_1011 BC. Jerusalem, Kingdom of Israel, Canaan._

Aziraphale stood to the side of the celebrations of the temple’s completion, smiling as the humans celebrated around him. The sacrifices were nearly complete, and their jubilation was palpable. Their chatter and laughter whirled through the city, mingling with singing and musical instruments.

It was beautiful, seeing how far they’d come since Egypt. He’d felt the Almighty’s presence after the Ark was placed inside. And it had been clear the humans recognized it as well. 

This Shlomoh fellow was clearly quite perceptive, and his eloquence was nothing to sneeze at either. Aziraphale had reached out with his more Angelic senses while he spoke, and the humans’ love for him had been evident.

“Aziraphale!” A man he’d met a few months earlier when he arrived in the city came toward him from a group of other humans. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Ah. Samuel, was it?” From what he’d gathered, lots of young people in Israel these days were named for past leaders. “How is your mother?”

“Much better.” Samuel turned to stand beside him, facing the rest of the humans with a contented sigh. “It’s beautiful.”

He was entirely correct. The temple stood gilded and proud over the city, a testament to human faith and the prosperity the Israelites had found since leaving Egypt. He wished he could have shown Moses. His people had found peace, at long last.

Then again, perhaps Moses had seen it. He had been rather closer to the Almighty than most beings. It was a bit funny, really, considering how much of his youth he spent under the influence of a Demon. 

Crawly would have some smart remark on the temple. Something about greed, perhaps, or pride. Entirely blasphemous, of course, and yet… 

Aziraphale swallowed. 

“You all right?” Samuel touched his arm. “You look like someone told you your favourite tablet broke.”

Aziraphale cast him an offended glance. “I beg your pardon.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s quite all right.” Aziraphale sighed. “I was just… thinking. About friends who I wish could have seen it.”

Samuel looked back to the temple, eyes wistful. “I know what you mean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap on the first half! Three millennia down, three to go. Though technically it's 603 scenes, not 600 exactly, but that's negligible at this scale. Either way, it's absurd to think about, and very exciting. I also want to thank everyone who's coming along with me, leaving kudos, and commenting. It's been wonderful, and immesurably helpful to have the feedback and support the last few months.
> 
> One quick announcement: we’ll be getting into a lot more ancient Israelite/Jewish history in the next millennium or so. I know that this particular period of history and culture means a lot to many people, and I’ve done my best to be respectful here. However, as one might imagine, my writing-and-posting schedule makes properly thorough research difficult, and I’m far from perfect. With that in mind, I’m very sorry if/when I’ve done something offensive and, time allowing, will amend anything in that vein that comes to light, whether it does so through feedback or my own further research.
> 
> On one last, lighter note, Shlomoh also known as Solomon!


	302. 999 BC - Napata, Kush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for alcohol use.

_999 BC. Napata, Kush._

Crowley swaggered into the Prince’s reception hall. He’d finally, properly got the hang of the language two years earlier, and immediately set about getting to such a place that he could influence politics. It had been a while since he did politics properly back in Egypt, and it had been long enough since Athens he was ready to give it another shot. 

Despite that, he wasn’t really ranked high enough to be attending a party thrown by royalty. But the Prince was more than a little subversive, and all the humans were shaken up by the moon turning red earlier in the day. Crowley had heard rumours of doomsday predictions, and he wasn’t about to refuse an invitation to a party in court, especially when it rolled up in a little red chariot. 

Attendants stood around, offering up platters of flatbread and goblets of wine to partygoers. There were a lot of humans attending, too, dancing and talking and laughing. A group of musicians stood at the side of the room, playing drums, lutes, and cymbals.

There were a considerable number of plain-faced displays of wealth, as well. There was a bowl at one edge of the room that appeared to have no other purpose than to hold diamonds and pearls. The Prince himself sat at the top of the hall, on a dias. He was dressed in fine linen, dyed vibrant purple. There were three gold chains around his neck, and a gold crown over tight black curls. 

He seemed to be engaged in an intense conversation with a young woman sitting at the foot of his throne, who wore a distinctive pink headdress. 

A human came up at Crowley’s elbow. “Hello, there.”

He turned to look at them. “Hi.”

“You haven’t met the Prince yet?”

“Nah. I’m pretty new to court.”

“You look it.” The human chuckled, then held out a hand in greeting. “I’m Nikkiabet.”

He shook hands with her. “Crowley.”

“It’s good to meet you, Crowley. Where are you from?”

Blast. His accent wasn’t quite gone, then. Or maybe it was how pale he was since coming from Phoenicia. At least he wasn’t as pale as he’d been after Mycenae. “My family’s from up north, but I’ve been in Napata for most of my life.” He’d been in town over forty years, after all. 

“North—from Egypt, then?”

“Farther. But my family had to go through Egypt on the way.”

“Ah, pardon me. They’re not doing very well up there these days, so I’d heard there were some refugees in Kush from that.”

“There are,” Crowley agreed. “I’m just not one of them.”

Nikkiabet laughed. “That makes sense. How far north, then?”

“Tyre.”

She raised her eyebrows. “That’s a long journey.”

“Someone’s done it since.” He gestured to the Prince’s clothing.

“True.” She waved down a servant and took a flatbread for herself, then offered it to Crowley. “Would you like some?”

“No, thank you.” 

She ripped off a piece. “All right, then.”

“What’s with all this?” Crowley gestured around at the party. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s great, but I didn’t expect to be invited to a party by the Prince.”

Nikkiabet nodded. “It’s the apocalypse.”

She didn’t seem very distressed at the prospect.

Of course, Crowley knew it wasn’t the apocalypse—had a few thousand years before that—but that didn’t really matter. “So, you thought, world’s ending, might as well get drunk and have fun?”

“Exactly.” Nikkiabet grinned. “I’m not sure everyone really believes the world will end, but he’d made up his mind. And some of the visionaries have been telling stories about strange-coloured rains and attacks from seven enemy nations, so it’s not entirely unfounded.”

“Right.” He turned back to survey the party again. “I guess that makes sense.”

“Nikkiabet!” 

Crowley glanced up to see the Prince watching them from the dias. The woman he’d been speaking to was descending into the crowd again, her headdress set at a jaunty angle. 

“Nikkiabet, darling, come back up here.”

Nikkiabet looked at Crowley and shrugged a little apologetically, then walked away through the throngs of humans to the dias. 

An attendant offered Crowley a cup of wine, and he took it. Humans were the strangest beings, sometimes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was apparently a full lunar eclipse over much of Africa on 27 August, 999 BC. Most of the other stuff here has relatively little actual historical basis.


	303. 987 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for inadvertent deadnaming.

_987 BC. Jerusalem, Kingdom of Israel, Canaan._

Aziraphale handed his customer a tablet on which he’d transcribed a letter. “There we are. I hope it meets your expectations?”

The human turned it over in his hands, then looked up and nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

“Wonderful. Have a lovely day.”

The human took the tablet and waved, then left his shop. Another human came up to the table, holding a tablet of their own. 

Aziraphale turned away to pull out his stylus knife, then turned back to face the new customer. “Hello. What can I do for you this afternoon?”

The human was relatively young, with a sparse beard and masculine clothing. He waved nervously. “Hi. Um. You’re a scribe, right?”

“Yes. I’m Aziraphale.”

“Aziraphale. Right. I’m Ibsan.” He took a tablet from where he’d been clutching it against his chest and held it out to Aziraphale. “Could you copy this for me, please?”

“Indubitably.” He took the tablet and scanned the words. It appeared to be a request to be taught how to butcher animals the proper way. It was written in one of the newfangled alphabets. He still thought those were terribly clever, whatever Crawly might say.

“Mr. Aziraphale?” 

He looked up. “Yes?”

“Are you—are you okay?”

“Oh. Yes, quite.” He smiled and set the tablet down on his desk. “Everything appears to be in order. If you’d like to wait—”

“You don’t look like you’re okay.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“When you looked at the tablet. You looked… sad.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. He was slowly recovering from Crawly’s sudden disappearance, but apparently his reactions were still evident. “I assure you, I am well enough.”

“Okay.” Ibsan nodded. “Sometimes I pick stuff up that other people aren’t worried about.”

“That’s quite all right, my dear, but if you’ll excuse me, I prefer not to discuss my personal life at work.” It was as good an explanation as any, after all. Aziraphale pulled out a fresh tablet and began copying as clearly as he could manage. “If you’d like to wait, you may see it before I take it to be fired, or I can contact you once it’s entirely complete.”

“I’ll wait.” 

Out the corner of his eye, Aziraphale could see Ibsan sit down, one hand rubbing his thigh in rhythmic motions. 

Aziraphale sighed and directed his attention back to the tablet. It was simple enough—he’d be finished within the hour, if he kept at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've revised the tags a bit! I mostly took out the pronoun notes for side characters such as Gabriel and Dagon in order to make room for more tags as the story goes forward without swamping everything. I also added a few upcoming civilizations to the list. But the content warnings are about the same as they have been. :)


	304. 977 BC - Napata, Kush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for use of alcohol as a coping mechanism.

_977 BC. Napata, Kush._

Crowley shut the door to his house and set a jar of wine on a table, then settled into a chair and pulled off his veil. He’d just finished a long day of temptations, and he was more than ready to just stop thinking for an hour or six.

Kush was… fine. There wasn’t anything wrong with it, objectively speaking, but he couldn’t help but feel like there was something missing. Nothing concrete, mind. There were all the things one would expect of a kingdom. Kings, humans, buildings, farms… all that.

And really, part of him knew what it was that he thought was missing, but he wasn’t about to _say_ it. Or think it. 

He groaned and scrubbed his hands over his face, then staggered to his feet and went to pour a cup of wine. He’d been learning, the last sixty-odd years, that there were times when he just couldn’t stop himself getting all… like this, and when that happened there was nothing for it but to get through.

The thing was, he was almost certain he’d gone wrong somewhere. Something had gone wrong with him, and now he was the only Demon pathetic enough to think he could possibly be in love with an Angel.

He took the first swig of wine, then draped himself over a seat and examined his cup, rolling it between his fingers.

If he weren’t a Demon, it would be different. But he was, and that was that. He’d been a Demon for three thousand years. Unforgivable, amoral, and loveless. It was all part and parcel to the gig.

So the idea that he’d somehow fallen in love—the idea that he could even experience that—was laughable at best. And that begged the question what exactly was happening to him. 

He’d thought, for the first decade or two, that perhaps he was ill. Feeling too hot was a symptom of illness, after all. Delusions could be too, or so he’d heard. But then he hadn’t got any worse, and he’d had to throw out the idea. 

Which left him where he was now: with no clue what the fuck was happening to him. Not a whisper. Not one little peep. 

_Something_ was, obviously. Demons didn’t just go around admiring Angels for no reason, or getting bizarre feelings in their chest when they thought about an Angel, or having their throat close up when an Angel said a particular thing. 

And he’d thought he might be in love, but that couldn’t be it. 

If it were… 

It didn’t bear thinking about. 

Crowley took another drink of wine. 

He’d get it sorted out. Cure himself of whatever this was, and go back to business as normal. If he didn’t, he’d have… problems. 


	305. 968 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for inadvertent deadnaming.
> 
> So apparently I forgot to post this, the second chapter, yesterday? Whoops. Here it is now, along with the two scenes for today. :)

_968 BC. Jerusalem, Kingdom of Judah, Canaan._

Aziraphale opened the door to his house to see Ibsan standing on the doorstep. “Ah, hello.” He stepped to the side and gestured for him to enter. “How is Achsah?”

“She’s well.” Ibsan entered the room, then lifted what appeared to be a loaf of bread wrapped in fabric. “She had me bring this. She doesn’t think you’re eating enough.”

“She—how exactly does she presume to know how much I’m eating?” Though to be fair, by human standards, he did eat very little… 

Ibsan shrugged. “She has a hunch.” He set the bread down, then sat. “How are you?”

“Quite well, thank you.” Aziraphale filled a small bowl with olive oil and two cups with a bit of milk he’d received from a kindly shepherd that morning. Then he brought all of it to the table and sat across from Ibsan. “Please thank Achsah for the bread for me.”

“I will.” Ibsan took a sip of milk. “Any word from your missing friend?”

“Er, not as such.” Azirphale swabbed a piece of bread through the olive oil and took a large bite. It was excellent bread. 

“How long has it been now?” Ibsan asked.

Aziraphale chewed pointedly. 

“You’re still hurting, Aziraphale.”

He swallowed. “And what if I am? It’s not as though there’s anything to be done about it.”

“You could talk about it.”

“I shan’t.”

Ibsan sighed. “It’s not going to get any better if you don’t even talk about it.”

“There’s nothing to discuss. They aren’t even my friend.” He took another bite of bread, larger than the last.

Ibsan raised his eyebrows and waited.

Aziraphale had to swallow eventually. “They aren’t! I was silly to think they were.” He paused, then shook his head. “No, it was more than that. It was wrong. We—they’re not the sort of person one can be friends with.”

“How do you mean?” Ibsan asked.

“It’s—well, they were a very bad person. And I… I let them do things I shouldn’t have, when I ought to have stopped them.”

“And they hurt you for it?”

Aziraphale scowled. “Really.”

“You are hurt, aren’t you?”

“What a preposterous idea.” He wasn’t hurt by Crawly’s departure. If anything, he was… he was relieved! Yes, it was quite a relief not needing to worry about finding Crawly working on some nefarious machination at every turn. 

“Your friend left you without warning and you miss them.”

“No. Absolutely not.” Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Really, if you must make such baseless—”

“Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale scowled.

“It makes me sad.”

“What?”

“Seeing you hurting.”

“I am just the same as I’ve been while you’ve known me, dear boy.” He took a dainty sip of milk. “I hardly think that counts has ‘hurting.’”

“You’ve been hurting as long as I’ve known you.”

Aziraphale humphed. 

“It’s okay if you don’t want to work on it. But you clearly have feelings about your friend.”

“I do not. I don’t care about them, I’m not hurt, and we are most certainly not friends.”

Ibsan raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay.” He sighed, then paused for a moment before speaking again. “Oh, have I told you about my new project yet?”


	306. 956 BC - Napata, Kush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for alcohol use.

_956 BC. Napata, Kush._

Crowley leaned over the table toward Tabiry, a human he’d been tempting. As temptees went, Tabiry was… halfway decent. She wasn’t the kindest to her employees, but she was an architect and one of the best conversationalists in Kush this decade.

“It’s artistic,” she said. 

“It’s a waste of space.”

She scowled at him. “Fine, if that’s your opinion, I guess you’re entitled to it.”

Crowley sighed and planted his face against the table. He’d been trying to get her to have a proper argument with him for hours. It had been going… about this well. 

All. Blasted. Evening.

He was getting progressively more drunk and not one bit more satisfied with the conversation. 

“What’s going on with you this evening?” 

“Nothing.” Crowley’s voice was muffled by the table.

Something hard hit him in the back of the head and he sat up. “Oi!”

Tabiry was examining her fingernails.

“That hurt.” He rubbed the back of his head. 

“That’s the point, Crowley.”

He growled.

“Don’t give me that.” She crossed her arms. “There’s something wrong with you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me.” He picked up his cup of beer and swallowed half of it, then set it down again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Just—y’know. Life.”

“Is this about your man?”

“He’s not my—he’s not even a bloody _man_.”

“So it is about him.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Crowley drained the rest of his beer. 

Tabiry raised her eyebrows at him.

He growled at her.

“You’re just proving my point,” she said. 

“I am not proving it. I’m not giving it the time of day, because it’s a ridiculous bloody point. It’s not even a point. It’s just a thing you made up in your little brain and decided to have it come out your mouth even though it’s ridiculous. That’s how ridiculous it is.”

Tabiry sipped her beer.

Crowley crossed his arms on the table and buried his face again. “Y’know what. I’m—I’m gonna shut up now.”

“It’s about him.”

“It is _not_.”

“It is.”

Crowley groaned.

This evening was not going well. 


	307. 950 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for inadvertent deadnaming.

_950 BC. Jerusalem, Kingdom of Judah, Canaan._

Ibsan held up his hands. “Okay. That’s a lot to process. Hang on.” He paused. “Okay. So, you’re telling me that you’re an Angel.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“A literal Angel.”

“Very much so.”

“And your friend—or, the person who isn’t your friend—is a Demon?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Ibsan buried his face in his hands. “Why are you telling me, again?”

“You asked.”

“I did.” He exhaled. “I did do that.”

Aziraphale hummed and picked up a piece of fruit Ibsan had brought with him while he waited.

“Well, at least it makes sense now,” Ibsan said finally.

Aziraphale swallowed and frowned. “What makes sense, exactly?”

“You, and your deal with the friend.”

“Not my friend.”

“Did you know they were a Demon? They didn’t leave because you found out?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and looked away. “I knew.”

“You knew they were a Demon?”

“My dear boy, I wouldn’t be a very good Angel if I failed to detect a Demon over the course of three millennia.” He took a sip of wine. “Really. I had hoped you had more confidence in me than that.”

“Three _millennia_?”

“Mm. Indeed. Since Creation, more or less.”

Ibsan exhaled hard. “So you’re an Angel, who befrie—tolerated a Demon, for three millennia, and now the Demon disappeared on you.”

“Er. Broadly, yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, I heard your words, but I don’t understand.”

“It makes sense, is all. You’re hurt, and feeling anger toward yourself for believing them and tolerating their evil deeds.”

Aziraphale shifted in his seat. There was a rather strange sensation in the pit of his stomach. “I—”

“It’s okay to feel that way, Aziraphale.”

“I don’t feel that way.”

“Really? Is that the truth?” Ibsan leaned forward, making eye contact. “If you don’t, that’s okay. But if you do, that’s okay, too. It’s only human.”

Aziraphale swallowed and looked away. “I’m not human, Ibsan.”

“It’s a saying.”

“It’s not! I am an Angel, and I... I trusted them. It was wrong. They’re a Demon, for Heaven’s sake. Of course they left. It was absurd of me to think they might be able to—to _care_. Not to mention, I let them alone to do evil. I’m an Angel, Ibsan. It is in no way the same.”

Ibsan didn’t say anything, just watched him, gaze gentle.

Aziraphale balled his hands into fists in his robes, clenching his jaw. This was absurd. Crawly didn’t matter. 

They shouldn’t matter.

“What would help you feel better?” Ibsan asked.

He looked up. “I beg your pardon?”

“What can you do that will help you feel better?”

“Well, I suppose… I could make amends.”

“How would you do that?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I’m not sure I can. I’ve been a—a rather bad Angel.”

Ibsan sighed. “That doesn’t mean you can’t change. It doesn’t matter what you have been—it matters what you’re trying to be.”

“Really?”

He nodded earnestly.

It did make… a certain degree of sense. No sense dwelling on the past. And that was all his current state was, really. His Angelic nature wasn’t meant to be forgiving Demons and turning a blind eye to their misdeeds at every turn. All these emotions were his natural reaction to un-Angelic behaviour, translated by a human body.

Aziraphale nodded slowly. “I suppose—I suppose I could do that.”

“Will it help you?”

“I believe it will, really.” It would, wouldn’t it? It had to do. “Yes. Thank you, Ibsan. I will begin doing more good first thing tomorrow, and then I can put all this nonsense behind me.”

“I’m glad.” Ibsan smiled. “I hope* it helps.”

(* Ibsan was not convinced it would help in the slightest. He’d been watching Aziraphale talk himself into and out of things for decades by this time, and had seen enough of whatever was going on with Aziraphale and his Demon to know that doing excessive good deeds would not fix it.   
For one, Aziraphale clearly cared for the Demon. Ibsan spent the first two decades thinking the Demon was a life partner of some sort who had left him, and even though that was evidently not the case, it was clear that guilt was not Aziraphale’s only problem.   
Ibsan, however, was getting old, and didn’t have the energy to spend the rest of his life encouraging a stubborn immortal to engage his emotions in a healthy manner. So he didn’t say anything.)

“I’m sure it will.”


	308. 942 BC - Napata, Kush

_942 BC. Napata, Kush._

“Hey boss, come check out these stairs.”

Crowley looked up from her architectural schematics and looked over at the human who was talking to her. “What?”

“They’re weird.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that, Dakka.”

“It’s just—” He walked up and down the stairs a few more times. “I can’t explain it. There’s something wrong with them.”

“Well, work out what it is, and then we’ll see.” 

Crowley knew exactly what was going on with the stairs, of course. She’d designed them that way. They were all slightly shallower than the length of a human foot, and the bottom one’s riser was a hair taller than the rest. But they were close enough to standard Kushite stair dimensions you couldn’t tell unless you knew what you were looking for.

She was rather proud of them. 

The stairs were only one part of her plans. She’d also made the ceiling slightly too high, the floor just sloped enough that a table wouldn’t sit right, and the doorways narrow enough that people invariably clipped the edge going through. Oh, and the roof would hopefully make a really irritating noise when it rained. 

It wasn’t the flashiest of temptations, but she was confident it would have excellent dividends in terms of evil. After all, any human who just kept having inexplicable problems with their house would run out of patience quicker than one with a functional house. 

“Boss?”

“Hmm?” She looked at Dakka, who was sitting on the stairs now. “What?”

“You looked distracted.”

“’M not distracted.” She scowled. “Did you work out what’s wrong with the stairs?”

“No.”

“Right.” She sniffed. “I’ll just. Go check on the inside, then.”

Dakka nodded and shifted out of her way. 

She hurried up the stairs, balancing on the balls of her feet so she didn’t run into issues with the shallowness, and bashed her elbow against the doorframe on her way in. That smarted.

At least she knew it worked. 

Crowley kicked the door shut, rubbing her elbow with one hand, and surveyed the interior of the house. 

It looked normal enough, which was good. Nothing immediately suspicious. 

The only real problem was whether Hell would accept it as a temptation. Dagon wasn’t really known for her… nuanced thinking. Nor were any of the other Demons, really. 

Satan, maybe. He was smart. One of the few good things one could say for the Devil.

Even with him, though, it wasn’t quite certain. It was hard to explain why a house different from how one expected it to be encouraged sin to a Demon who lived in Hell where the landscape was constantly changing. Earth was consistent in a way Hell was very much not.

Unfortunately, no one who wasn’t human had been on Earth as long as Crowley had, so no one else really got it. 

Except Aziraphale.

Blast.

Crowley opened the door of the house again and stormed down the stairs, stumbling on the last one and cursing.

Dakka looked up at her from where he’d been going over the plans with one of the other human workers. “Boss?”

“What’re you lot looking at?”


	309. 927 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some unhealthy thoughts about food as a result of emotional abuse (Heaven) and reference to terminal illness of a parent.

_927 BC. Jerusalem, Kingdom of Judah, Canaan._

Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap as the human he was guiding, a middle-aged woman named Deborah, walked out of the room. He was in the process of attempting to convince her to take in a very ill neighbour’s child who was around the same age as her own son, and she was taking some time to decide. 

The son in question was sitting on the floor near Aziraphale’s feet, holding a spinning top and staring at him. 

It wasn’t rude. Children simply didn’t understand not to stare. 

“Wise hair like Granpa.”

Aziraphale looked down at the child. “I beg your pardon?”

“Wise hair like Granpa.”

“Repeating the same words that failed to communicate your meaning is hardly effective, dear boy. You’ll have to say something else.”

The child wrinkled his nose.

“Say different words.”

“Your hair’s like Granpa.”

“My hair is—oh, you mean it’s white?”

“Wise hair like Granpa.”

Aziraphale sighed.

The child stood and walked over to the seat on which Aziraphale was sitting. He hesitated a moment, then began unceremoniously climbing into his lap.

“I say.” Aziraphale pulled his hands back. “Er. What exactly are you doing?”

“Like Granpa.” The child settled against his chest.

Oh dear. This was… not unwelcome, per se, but hardly how he intended this to go. “I am not your grandfather.”

“Wise hair.”

“It’s _white_.”

“Wise.”

Aziraphale sighed heavily and attempted to relax. The child did not seem to be particularly aware of social rules to do with sitting on people just yet, but to send him away would likely offend him, and that wasn’t particularly Angelic. 

“Aziraphale?”

He looked up to see Deborah standing in the doorway, holding bowls of stew, and attempted to smile at her. “Ah. Hello, there. I seem to have acquired a companion.”

“Seth doesn’t do that with anyone.”

“He’s—he’s named Seth?”

“Yes. After Adam and Eve’s son.”

Aziraphale looked down as much as he could at the small boy, curled against his chest. He’d fallen asleep, one fist clutching the fabric of Aziraphale’s robes. His breath whistled softly. 

“Aziraphale? Are you all right?”

Aziraphale blinked rapidly and swallowed, then looked up at Deborah again. “Yes—yes, quite well, thank you.” He hadn’t realized humans named themselves after Eve’s family these days. It made sense that they knew of them, of course, but… it was one thing to know they knew about those days and quite another to meet a child named for a human he’d lost so long ago.

Deborah set the bowls down and sat herself, watching Aziraphale and her son with a quietly joyful expression. “Did he say anything to you?” She asked softly.

“‘Wise hair like Granpa,’” Aziraphale said. “I assume in reference to my, er, white hair.”

“He liked his Grandfather. He passed away last month.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear it.”

She shrugged. “It is what it is.”

“Quite.”

Deborah sighed and sat forward to push one of the bowls across the table toward Aziraphale. “Would you like some stew?”

“Oh, I’m afraid I ate already.”

“Really?”

The scent of the lentils wafted across to him, and his mouth watered. Aziraphale hadn’t eaten in… goodness, more than twenty years.

“I’m sure,” he said. It was hardly Angelic. This body was just a vessel for his essence. Howevermuch it wanted to eat, he had to remember that it wasn’t _him_. Even his sense of taste was an illusion. “Thank you.”

“Hmm. All right.” Deborah took the bowl back. “What was this about Rivkah’s child?”


	310. 923 BC - Napata, Kush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for use of alcohol as a coping mechanism and depression.

_923 BC. Napata, Kush._

Crowley watched the human she’d just tempted walk away. He was more drunk than she’d realized. Oh, well. She was drunk too, so the tempation had been an even contest.

She hadn’t even really meant to tempt him, for once. Just got to talking and ended up suggesting he claim all his parents’ inheritance while his brother was away. It happened like that once in a while. 

Part and parcel to being a Demon, probably. 

She got to her feet and swayed dangerously. Ugh. She was… very drunk. How long had she even been drinking? Mid-morning, maybe. Looked like dusk now. Huh. 

“Hey, lady.” The wine-seller crossed his arms at her. “You’d better pay.”

She squinted at him, and he flinched back. She’d lost her veil somewhere along the line… bloke she’d been tempting hadn’t seemed to mind. 

Crowley waved her hand, and a lump of gold half the size of her fist appeared on the table. “Yeah?”

The wine-seller’s eyes went wide. “Is that—is that real?”

“Nah, thought I’d put in the effort to bend the light rays so it looks like gold.” She rolled her eyes. “Honestly. ’S not that hard. Lot harder to make sure you get all the frequencies and angles right and don’t burn anybody’s eyes out than to just get the number of bits right.”

The wine-seller stared at her, but Crowley found she was much too far gone to care.

“Gold’s simple. Seventy-nine of the things… seventy-nine of the other things. Third thing’s more flexible.” She sniffed. “Bloody tiny things, though.* An’ I told them to make the numbers the same, for the third one. The boring one. An’ they didn’t listen. Nobody ever listens to me.”

(* Crowley wasn’t quite lucid enough to know that humans had some time before working out how atoms went.)

The wine-seller was still watching her like she was spouting nonsense. 

“Fine.” She sneered. “Fine. You won’ listen either. Th’only one who does is the bloody Angel. Y’know why? ’Cause he’s an angel. Proper. My angel.”

“Do you… do you need help getting home, ma’am?”

“Do I _look_ like I need help getting home?”

“Yes?”

She hissed at him.

The wine-seller snatched the gold up off the table and turned away. 

Served him right. Bloody humans and their bloody greed. 

She began trudging home. It wasn’t far, really, or wouldn’t be if she could just walk in a straight line. After twenty minutes got her as many houses down, she sobered up halfway and kept going. 

After that, it didn’t take too much longer for her to make it up to her house. She paused at the door to fumble with the latch, still too drunk to remember she could just miracle it open. 

The sound of laughter from the end of the alley caught her attention. Crowley turned her head to see a pair of man-shaped beings, arm in arm, backs to her. One had fluffy white hair. 

Crowley dropped the latch and turned to run toward them. “Oi! Angel!”

The men turned, and Crowley stumbled to a stop. It wasn’t him.

“Can I help you?”

Crowley blinked at him, once. “You’re not him.”

“I’m not who?”

“Never mind.” Crowley turned away and began trudging back to her house. 

Of course. Of course it wasn’t Aziraphale. Why the Heaven would she think it was? He wouldn’t—he wouldn’t.

And she didn’t care. She _didn’t_. Couldn’t. 

She finally made it into her house and slammed the door, not bothering to light a lamp before she collapsed onto her bed. A snap of her fingers set anti-Angel wards in place. 

She spent time, once, trying to work out how to ward against some Angels but not all. What a waste of time that was.

Why was she like this? It didn’t make sense. She was a Demon. This wasn’t how she was meant to be. 

Maybe it would make more sense after some sleep, like the humans said. She almost laughed at that. Not bloody likely. 

Might as well try anyway, though. 


	311. 912 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for unhealthy interactions with food as a result of emotional abuse (Heaven).

_ 912 BC. Jerusalem, Kingdom of Judah, Canaan. _

Aziraphale rapped at the door of a wealthy man’s house and stepped back to look around. A bird was chirping in a tree behind the house. A pair of children played down the road.

It was quite peaceful, really.

The door opened and a man stepped out, scowling. His beard and hair were in disarray. “What do you want? Do you realize what time it is?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” He’d thought it was well into mid-morning by now. The fields he passed on the way already had workers eating.

“You did anyway.” The man sighed, then stepped to one side. “Come in. My wife is making breakfast.”

“Oh, thank you very much.” Aziraphale stepped inside and inhaled deeply as the man shut the door. “Goodness, that smells absolutely scrumptious.”

Praising cooking was good, wasn’t it? It raised the general spirits of the community, or so he hoped. He did hope it wasn’t too sinful of him to mention it…

“This way.”

Aziraphale followed him into a room where three children sat around a table. A woman was cooking in the corner. 

“Who’s that?” One of the smaller children.

“I am Aziraphale.” He sat. 

The man sat too, then gestured to each of his kids in turn. “Binyamin, Shillem, and my daughter Bilha. My wife is Eglah, and I am Aaron.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale smiled. “Like Miryam’s brother.”

“Yes, and Moses’s brother.”

“Indubitably. He was—er, that is, he was my… aunt’s… son’s… namesake?”

Aaron narrowed his eyes at him. “Are you—”

Eglah arrived at the table with the food. There was a basket of bread, some olives, oil and vinegar for the bread, and water. The next several minutes consisted of harried distribution of victuals, until the family finally settled in.

There was a piece of bread on Aziraphale’s plate.

He really hadn’t intended to end up at a meal. 

He dipped it in the oil and lifted it. It smelled… excruciatingly delightful. He took a bite and snapped his fingers under the table to vanish it. He pretended to chew, then swallowed. 

“What brings you here, Aziraphale?” Aaron asked.

He set the bread down. He had guidance to administer, after all. “Ah, yes. It’s to do with your occupation?”


	312. 898 BC - Napata, Kush

_898 BC. Napata, Kush._

Crowley opened her eyes, then squeezed them shut again. She’d been dreaming… that was new. Couldn’t remember what about, exactly. She’d been in… Uruk, maybe? 

Aziraphale had been there.

She rolled over and buried herself deeper under her blankets. Sleeping hadn’t got her any closer to working out what was going on. Was nice, though, not having to think about… whatever this was going on with her. 

She wasn’t in love with him. Not really. 

It would pass, eventually. Maybe it was some sort of Demon bug that took two hundred years to go away. 

After a while, light began filtering through the window. It looked like it was cloudy outside, which suggested she’d slept a few months at the least. Probably a lot longer, really. 

Crowley sat up and stretched, her joints popping in about twenty-five different places. Came of sleeping for… however long it was she’d been sleeping. 

There was a tablet on the floor next to her bed, broken in half and a little dusty. She leaned down to pick it up, wiping the dust that clung to her fingers off on the blankets. 

The tablet was dated to twenty-four years after she fell asleep, which was a thing she’d have to contend with. It was an assignment, due in two years’ time. So she was probably asleep for twenty-five or twenty-six years, since Hell hadn’t come to collect her for not doing the assignment in time.

“Right.” She set the tablet back down and flopped back on the bed. She’d have to get to work sooner or later. Ugh. 

Twenty years wasn’t _that_ bad, as naps went… wasn’t great, either. The clothes would have changed. Maybe the language too, if she was unlucky. 

She might look more Kushite, though. She held her arms out in front of herself. Yeah, her skin was definitely a little darker than when she’d gone to sleep. Maybe she’d finally stop being identified as a foreigner on sight. 

So long as the language hadn’t changed too much. 

She really had to get up. Blast it all. 

Crowley snapped her fingers, vanishing her blankets, then cursed and curled up on her side. It was cold without blankets.

First things first. Get up. Walk to the door. Spy on humans to see what the clothes looked like. Miracle clothes. Put on clothes. Put on veil so humans don’t run screaming. Braid hair. Go do the Demon things. 

Right. Big bad Demon. She could do this. 


	313. 888 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of unhealthy interactions with food as a result of emotional abuse (Heaven).

_888 BC. Jerusalem, Kingdom of Judah, Canaan._

Aziraphale laid down on the bed in his house and folded his hands over his stomach, staring up at the ceiling. Up until this year, he’d successfully avoided participating in human traditions—the ones that included food, at any rate. But this year, he hadn’t realized springtime was coming until much too late, and found himself with an invitation to a seder he couldn’t refuse. 

As meals went, it was really the ideal scenario. A feast the humans had been instructed by God to keep. Surely, if he had to eat, that made it better? The food had been lovely, too. Roast lamb, matzo, olives, beans, and vegetables… and quite a lot of wine. It was nice, eating a full meal for the first time in sixty-two years. And the humans had been rather lovely, though they’d been a bit concerned for him by the end. 

It all went splendidly until the Maggid. He hadn’t quite processed what it meant to tell the story of the flight from Egypt. Having spent nearly seven hundred years trying not to think about all of that, it was… distressing to review it, to say the least.

When they reached the death of the firstborns, it had been all he could do to maintain his composure. He could remember the wailing in Egypt that night, and the emptiness in his chest. The horrible grief that flooded the houses. 

And now, with Crawly gone… it hurt differently. They’d saved him from Falling that day. He could recognize that now. But now they’d left, and he didn’t know _why_.

Oh, dear, he was thinking about it again. 

That was the worst part, really—remembering that moment. All those people dead, and how he’d thought that perhaps Crawly could care about him. He’d got a bit wrapped up in it at the seder, and caught more than a few of the humans giving him worried looks. He’d made an effort to pull himself together after that.

The singing had helped, and so had the wine a bit later. Aziraphale was still tipsy. 

Laying quietly in bed wasn’t helping his state of mind in the slightest. He put a considerable amount of effort into distracting himself nearly all the time, and now he was just… allowing his mind to run amok. 

Perhaps he ought to get up. 

Oh, but the bed was comfortable. 

Drat. Perhaps depriving himself of things wasn’t quite the way to go about it. After all, even the most virtuous of humans ate, and he’d be better equipped to do his duties if he didn’t have to keep turning down offers of food. He’d had more than a few humans look at him quizzically over the years for that. Or with concern that he didn’t eat. 

The trouble was, he had trouble ridding himself of the image of other Angels’ faces when they learned he’d been eating, or imbibing alcohol. It wasn’t bad, though. It wasn’t. It was simply… not the done thing. 

But the Almighty hadn’t said a peep on the matter of Angels eating. If She had an opinion—if it _mattered_ —She would say. So there.

Perhaps it was time he get involved again. Lead by example, as it were. His reports had been a bit lacklustre for a few decades. He’d just throw himself into it. Do some truly, properly good deeds. 

And then, perchance, he could forget about Crawly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of prevaricating on religion in the notes this time, folks. It doesn't have any bearing on the story, so feel free to skip. I just wanted to say some of this stuff in the interest of transparency, so it's out there. :)
> 
> I know a lot of the worldbuilding in Good Omens draws on Christian conceptions of things, which means I was a bit hesitant to have Aziraphale involved in Jewish history and traditions, especially since I’m not Jewish myself. However, I felt like it would be weirder to keep him from living with Jewish people until Jesus shows up and Christianity becomes a thing, or for him to live among Jewish people for centuries without engaging in the community. So, I’ve decided to portray the Jewish characters and traditions as respectfully as I can, while Aziraphale himself remains kind of Christian-influenced and anachronistic for the setting.
> 
> Also, I'd like to just throw it out there that I know a lot of the themes in this section of Aziraphale's arc (atonement, the not-eating thing, etc.) relate more to Yom Kippur than Passover. However, I opted out of doing stuff with Yom Kippur specifically because a) Aziraphale has history around the Passover story in this continuity and b) I have more experience with Passover, and feel a little more comfortable talking about it. (My stepmother was Jewish, and we did a Passover seder as a family for several years, but when she did stuff for Yom Kippur, she did it more on her own.)


	314. 882 BC - Napata, Kush

_882 BC. Napata, Kush._

Crowley kicked a pebble into a ditch by the side of the road and watched it skitter in, then turned to look at the human she was tempting. “Come on, ’s not that bad, is it? I mean, sure, it’ll be annoying for a little while, but in the long run, it doesn’t matter.”

“It’s not the right thing to do, though.”

Crowley groaned. The same arguments, every single blasted time. Couldn’t someone have a little creativity every now and again? ‘I can’t commit adultery because a talking crane told me not to,’ or something. ‘I’m not up for stealing because it’s bad luck.’ But no, they all had to be concerned about the morality of it. 

“Isn’t it? I mean, what is right and wrong, really?”

The human—Nensela?—looked confused. “It’s… what’s good?”

They passed into a small orchard, and Crowley began looping around trees. Lot more fun than just walking straight down a path. “Come on, you can do better than that. ‘Good’s just another name for ‘right.’”

“If I did what you want me to do, it would hurt people.”

Crowley came to a stop in front of her. “Try again.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t bloody well hurt people to steal from the richest bloke in town.”

Nensela’s eyebrows shot up. “Not so loud!”

“We’re in the middle of an orchard. Nobody’s around, trust me.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do, okay? Besides, you haven’t agreed, so if some goody two-shoes anti-stealing person did drop from a tree, I’d be the one in trouble, not you.” She turned and craned her neck up at the trees. Just to be extra sure. Then she shrugged and looked back at Nensela. “Point is, it doesn’t hurt anyone. What’s wrong about it, then?”

Nensela sighed and went to lean against a tree. “It’s not right.”

“And…. we’re back to the circular logic again.”

She scowled at her.

Crowley shrugged. “Sorry.” 

Nensela threw her hands up in apparent disgust and leaned her forehead against the tree. If somebody asked Crowley, she’d have said it was melodramatic, but nobody did. 

Either way, Crowley couldn’t very well keep walking while her temptee wasn’t moving. She paused, taking a proper look around. The tree above her was a fig tree. The fruits were ripe, too. 

She reached up and pulled one off, then bit into it. 

Oh, Satan. She hadn’t had a fig in… a century or two. Maybe three. Hard to say. She’d had that tree back in Tyre—the one that kept having overabundant harvests* to the point that she had to give Aziraphale the surplus. He really enjoyed them. 

(* Which may or may not have been caused by the subconscious influence of the nearest occult entity.)

“Crowley?”

She jammed the rest of the fig in her mouth and swallowed it whole, then spun around. “What?”

“Are you… well? You looked a bit sad.”

“I’m not _sssad_ ,” she hissed. “Do I look sad?”

Nensela shrank back. “No.”

“Yeah, that’s it.” She crossed her arms and leaned back against the tree, scowling. 

That was it. No more figs for Crowley. Reminded her too much of that bloody gorgeou—bloody gourmande angel. 

Anyway. 

Temptation. Right. She could do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized halfway through writing this that there’s a decent chance that official orchards weren’t a thing in Kush. If they weren’t… oh, well.


	315. 870 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for misgendering/deadnaming, violence, and implied/referenced child abuse.
> 
> This one has no bearing on long-term plot and is 100% skippable. 
> 
> (Also, for the record, a lot of scenes are skippable that I don't specifically note being skippable, I just try mention it when I notice that the content warnings are a bit heavier.)

_870 BC. Jerusalem, Kingdom of Judah, Canaan._

“I say!” Aziraphale waved across the city square. “Excuse me, are you quite all right?”

A youth, about the height of his breastbone, turned to look at him. Their dark, curly hair was covered with a scrappy veil, and they looked frightened as they shrank into the shadows of the building behind them.

Aziraphale crossed the square and went over to them. “Begging your pardon. I’m afraid I couldn’t help but notice that you look a mite distressed.”

“I’m fine.” The youth tipped their chin up. “Leave us alone.”

“Us?” 

A small voice coughed, and the youth wrapped their arms around a sling on their front protectively. Goodness. That was a baby. 

Aziraphale froze. “Are you sure? I promise, I mean you no harm.”

“That’s what everybody says.”

He held up his hands. “See?” He turned patted over his robes. “No weapons. I will not harm you, I swear. I simply want to help if you need it.”

The youth narrowed their eyes at him. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have any proof.” He pursed his lips. “If you’d like, I could leave a few coins here and leave. I won’t know what you do with them. You can leave them if you prefer.”

“You’d just… leave money?”

“I don’t see why not.” He reached into his robes and pulled out a pouch, keeping his movements gentle. Then he took a step backward and knelt, building a stack of coins in the dirt.

The youth watched him warily, rubbing the baby with one hand. 

“Hey! Leah! You get back here.”

Aziraphale looked up to see a tall, burly man coming out of a shop.

The youth whirled, hands balled into fists. “That’s not my name. You leave me and Asher alone.”

Oh, dear. Aziraphale scrambled to his feet and went to stand between the youth and the approaching man. 

The man stopped. “Who’re you?”

“My name is Aziraphale. Might I enquire what business exactly you have with this fine young person and their brother?”

“She’s my niece. Who the fuck are you?”

“I believe I already told you that. If you’ll excuse me a moment.” He inclined his head and turned to the youth. “Hello. Would you like me to send this chap away?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” He turned back to the man. “It would seem they wish for you to leave. I highly recommend you do so forthwith. Pip-pip.”

“She’s a child, and I’m her uncle. Let me see her.”

“I am not a child anymore. I’m thirteen.”

“You heard them.” Aziraphale smiled politely. “Off you go.”

The man attempted to push past him, but Aziraphale stopped him and wrestled him into an alley, then snapped his fingers. “Sleep.”

The man dropped into the dust. 

Aziraphale brushed off his robes and went back into the square. “There we are. Are you quite all right, my dear?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” The youth patted the baby on the back. “You—you really want to help me?”

“If you’d allow it. My name is Aziraphale.”

“Noam.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“I know he wasn’t the best, but… he’s like me. Sort of, anyway. With the gender thing...” Their voice trailed off uncertainly.

“I quite understand.” Aziraphale smiled warmly. “And me.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes.” 

“Woah.”

He chuckled. “I’m not sure it’s so deserving of that. Now, do you have somewhere to go?”

“My Gran’s house. She was away, but she’s back now. That’s why I left—Uncle didn’t tell me she was back so I wouldn’t leave.”

“How unpleasant. Well, lead the way. I’ll be sure your uncle doesn’t follow us.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s really nothing. Just my job.”

Noam made a skeptical noise, but motioned for him to follow them.


	316. 861 BC - Napata, Kush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of adultery.

_861 BC. Napata, Kush._

Crowley reclined on a couch and watched as Aktisanes, the human she was tempting, pace the length of her house. She didn’t let humans in habitually, but this particular temptation was worth it. She’d been slowly wearing Aktisanes and his wife, Henttawy, down for the better part of a decade. 

Now, with a bit of luck, Crowley was hoping to get the final push. 

Aktisanes stopped in the middle of his tirade, then huffed and collapsed into the chair opposite Crowley. “I just don’t know what to _do_ anymore.”

Crowley waited.

“I mean… I can’t do that, can I?”

“Can’t do what?”

Aktisanes looked up at her, expression distraught. “Leave her.”

And there they were. Crowley kept her expression neutral—this was a delicate moment, and she’d have time to gloat later.

“I mean, you could. Technically speaking. There’s nothing stopping you.”

“It would hurt her.”

“Would it?” Crowley happened to have it on good confidence that Henttawy had been engaged in an affair for the past three years. Aktisanes knew, too, but he didn’t know Crowley knew, so she couldn’t really bring it up without jeopardizing the whole lot. “I mean, it’s not like the two of you are in…”

“Are in what?”

“Y’know.” Crowley shrugged. “Or if you don’t, it’s just as well. I mean, if you _did_ , why would you be here?”

Aktisanes looked down. “You mean if she…”

“Yeah.”

He covered his mouth with one hand, eyes glittering. “I thought we did. When we were married.”

“Things change.” 

“They do at that.” He sighed heavily. “I—I do love her.”

“Really?” Crowley’s tone was mostly respectful, with just a hint of skepticism. 

“I thought I did.”

“Mm.”

“I just… I’m not the man she married anymore, am I? I can’t be who she wants me to be. I haven’t been, not for years.”

Crowley picked up a cup of palm wine from a nearby table and took a sip, then set it down again. It was good palm wine—just on the border of too sweet.

She swallowed eventually and examined Aktisanes through her veil. He looked… distraught, which was unfortunate. Maybe she’d pushed the issue a little too early. Oh, well. Too late now. 

She tilted her head. “What would you do? If you did go?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” He leaned back. “Maybe… court someone else. Find some merchants and see more of the world.”

“That doesn’t sound half bad.”

“It doesn’t, does it?” He paused. “I could always come back, too. Maybe we just need a break from one another.”

“Mm. Yeah, that sounds like a decent idea. Take some time. Get your thoughts in order.” Crowley slouched a little deeper. “Henttawy’s not exactly going anywhere anytime soon. You’re both healthy, and young.”

“We’re thirty.”

Crowley waved a hand. “Close enough. I’m just saying, it couldn’t hurt.”

“Couldn’t it?”

She stifled a groan. Humans just loved going in circles. “Just—ghh. Aktisanes. Are you or aren’t you in love with her?”

His expression turned pained. 

“You’re not, are you?” She sat forward. “If you were, you’d _know_ , eh? You remember what it was like before, yeah? D’you still feel that way?”

“No,” he muttered.

“Right. That’s that, then. You remember what love feels like, this isn’t it, end of story. What’s keeping you here?” Crowley crossed her arms, then made herself relax. “Look, Aktisanes… I’m not trying to hurt you. I just want you to be able to recognize the truth. You don’t love her. You can’t, really, not anymore. And you have to be okay with that.”

“I… maybe you’re right.”

“Hmm.” She sat back again. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re right. I’ll—I’ll go.”

Crowley exhaled. She’d done it. This was going to look brilliant on her report.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t agree with most of the ideas about relationships Crowley’s espousing here—she just has some stuff to work out.


	317. 846 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a lack of self-preservation as a result of emotional abuse (Heaven) and injury from a house fire.

_846 BC. Jerusalem, Kingdom of Judah, Canaan._

Aziraphale hurried around a corner. There was an orange glow through the darkness over the rooftops, and he could smell smoke. There were humans shouting, as well. 

He stopped in front of a large building, which appeared to be on fire. Nothing else was, thankfully—the humans had stopped the flames from spreading for the time being. 

The building itself, though, was not in the best way. Fire was creeping up toward the second level. Even as he approached, he could hear the structure creaking.

He tapped one of the more self-possessed-looking humans on the shoulder briskly. “Pardon me.”

The human turned. “Oh, no. Do you know someone inside?”

“Do I—do you mean to say that there are people inside?”

“Yes. Couldn’t get them out in time, and they’re not waking up.” The human’s expression was stricken.

Aziraphale looked up at the building and swallowed. It wouldn’t be long before it was too late for everyone. And he was the only one who could do this, really. 

“Are you all right?” The human asked.

“Yes.” He squared his shoulders. “Absolutely spiffy. I’ll just nip in, then.”

“What? You can’t go in there.”

“I’m afraid I can.” He’d have to do a rather large miracle to make sure the humans didn’t remember, but that wasn’t really of consequence here. 

Aziraphale pulled out his wings, ignoring the gasps and shouts of the humans around him, and jumped. 

It was a short flight to the window, and he caught the sill easily enough. The wall was hot to the touch, but not unbearable quite yet. He could feel flames licking toward his feet. 

He pulled his wings in and climbed ungracefully into the room, resisting his body’s urge to breathe. He’d be no good to anyone if he lost consciousness from smoke inhalation. And likely be discorporated to boot.

Even without breathing, though, the smoke made his eyes water. And it was awfully warm inside.

He shut his eyes and reached out a hand. There they were—two humans, one soundly asleep just to his left, the other clinging to life, much farther inside the building. 

First things first. 

Aziraphale opened his eyes and plunged deeper inside. It was hotter the farther from the window he went. Everything even the slightest bit human in him was firmly against his present situation. 

He pushed open the door to the room and stepped through, shutting it behind him. This room was much smaller, and very little was visible through the smoke. Flames licked under the door. 

There was the human, though, still alive. Thank God. 

He went over and lifted them from the bed. It was a child—a waif of a thing. Six years old, perhaps. 

Aziraphale held them to his chest and carried them from the room, shutting the door behind him. The other human was doing quite a bit better. 

The child made a soft sound as he leaned over the other human where they were slumped over a table, but didn’t stir.

Aziraphale touched a hand to the older human’s head. “Wake up, my dear.”

The human’s eyes flew open and they began coughing. 

“There we are.” He coughed himself, head swimming. Goodness. Perhaps talking wasn’t the thing to do. He’d already begun, though, and it wouldn’t do to leave them alone in danger. “I need you to hold on to me, please.”

The human blinked at him, eyes unfocused, then stood unsteadily. 

Something crashed in the previous room, and a fresh plume of smoke blew into the room. 

Aziraphale grimaced and held an arm out to the older human. “Come along.”

The human wrapped their arms around his shoulders, and Aziraphale braced one of his own around their waist.

Oh, bother, he didn’t have enough arms. 

He really wasn’t thinking clearly anymore.

Aziraphale manifested another arm and closed his eyes, then gestured toward the window. 

The wall burst, showering plaster and wood down into the flames below. 

Aziraphale vanished the superfluous arm and spread his wings, gliding away from the building.

The flight was bumpy, but short. He stumbled to the ground on the other side of the street, managing to stay upright. Humans rushed forward, taking the two injured ones from him. 

They were saying words, but he couldn’t quite make them out over the dreadful ringing in his ears. 

With the humans safe, Aziraphale sank slowly to sit on the ground. One last miracle, tonight, and then he could rest. He raised one hand and snapped his fingers, banishing the humans’ memories of his wings. It wasn’t pretty, and would likely have some minor repercussions in the coming months, but he couldn’t risk leaving such an important task for when he felt up to it. 

Gracious, he was in a state. He used one hand to pat out the hem of his robes where they’d caught. He was quite sooty as well, and his skin was rather pinker and shinier than seemed entirely healthy. 

Still. He was of no consequence, at the moment. He’d done good, as an Angel ought, and that was what mattered. 


	318. 841 BC - Napata, Kush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to sex.

_841 BC. Napata, Kush._

Crowley leaned against the wall, eyes skipping over the crowd of humans. It wasn’t a terrible party. Not the best she’d ever been to, but passable. And it would suit her purposes just fine. 

Up until about an hour earlier, Crowley had been slumped sideways over a chair in her house, drunk. It had been happening a lot lately. This time it was because she’d woken up from a dream about Aziraphale, again. She’d been on a rooftop in Memphis, leaning against him and watching the sun set. They’d been just about to kiss when she woke up. 

Anyway. 

Point was, she’d been in a snit, until she had the bright idea of coming to a party. Parties were excellent distractions. Rife with opportunities for temptation, too. She hadn’t been invited to this one, technically, but the human at the door had taken a bribe with very little effort. 

She wasn’t in love with Aziraphale. Not really. Maybe in lust. Kissing was lust, wasn’t it? A prelude, anyway. 

Maybe she was just looking for sex. That was acceptable, for Demons. Probably. Hadn’t ever bothered asking, but that was just ’cause she hadn’t thought about it before. 

Granted, the whole business seemed messy and awkward, but it might explain what had been going on with her. 

That was it. This wasn’t about Aziraphale. She’d just find a human to get it on with, problem solved. 

Right. 

Had to find a human for that. She didn’t even know what was considered sexually attractive these days. Stylish, sure, but the two weren’t necessarily aligned. Then again, she hadn’t ever had a problem getting humans interested in her before, and she hadn’t tried before now. 

Crowley scanned the room for a suitable human. Many of them were too drunk. After that, it was a matter of sorting through levels of attention to personal grooming and her own preference.

Did she even have a preference?

Whatever. There was a human in feminine dress around Crowley’s apparent age sitting at a table not far off, by herself. She’d do. 

Crowley walked toward the table and sat opposite the human. “Hi. Waiting for someone?”

The human glanced up from her cup of wine. “No.” She looked them up and down. “I’m Kasaqa.”

“Crowley.” She smiled. “I was just admiring your, er, hair.”

It was nice enough hair—black curls in a carefully formed puff around Kasaqa’s round face. Crowley honestly didn’t have much of an opinion when it came to human hair, though. 

Kasaqa looked down, smiling too. “Oh, thank you.”

Fine. That was… fine. Crowley cleared her throat. “So. D’you, er. D’you read?”

Kasaqa shook her head. “My brother is a scribe, though.” She paused. “Where did you get the fabric for your dress?”

Crowley looked down at her dress. It had started out as regular old wool, but she miracled it black. “Oh. Gift from a family friend who’s a merchant.”

“It looks wonderful on you. It reminds me of the best soil.”

“Thanks. Your hair reminds me of a… cloud.”

It wasn’t dishonest. But truthfully, Kasaqa’s hair wasn’t that much more cloudlike than any other human’s hair in this area.

Kasaqa laughed, cheeks dimpling. “Thank you.” 

Crowley grinned. She didn’t seem terrible, as humans went. Nice, though. A decent temptation, if she was on the job.

Actually, lust was a sin, wasn’t it, technically speaking? She couldn’t very well put it on her report to Dagon, though…

Probably ought to get to it, either way. 

Kasaqa took a sip of her wine. 

“How is it?” Crowley asked after she put her cup down again.

“Sweet.” She set the cup down and licked her lips, looking at Crowley from under her eyelashes.

That was flirting, wasn’t it? “Mmm,” Crowley said. “Can I taste?”

Kasaqa nodded and pushed her cup across the table. 

Crowley took a sip, holding eye contact with Kasaqa the way she’d watched humans do. The wine was passable. She set the cup down. “Not bad. Not quite the taste I had in mind, though.”

“Oh?”

“Nah.”

“Oh.” Kasaqa’s eyes flicked down the Crowley’s mouth, then up again. “May I?”

Shit, this was it, wasn’t it? Here she went. “Yeah.”

Kasaqa leaned across the table and pressed her lips against Crowley’s. 

It was… fine. Honestly, Crowley had expected more, the way humans wrecked their own lives for it. Maybe she wasn’t doing it right? There were supposed to be more… tongues involved, weren’t there?

Crowley parted her lips, attempting to deepen the kiss, and oh, bless it, Kasaqa’s tongue was in her mouth. Slimy. Weird. 

Crowley pulled away. 

Kasaqa sat back. “I’m sorry, was that wrong?”

“No, no, you’re fine.” Crowley wiped her mouth with one hand. “I just… fuck. I’ve got… I’ve got someone.”

Honestly, what the Heaven was wrong with her?


	319. 827 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence and discorporation.

_827 BC. Jerusalem, Kingdom of Judah, Canaan._

Aziraphale ran his fingers lightly over a bolt of linen cloth. It was of excellent quality, but he wasn’t quite sure he was ready to buy new clothing. After all, his oldest tunic was only one hundred and fifty years old.

He pulled back his hand. There would be more fabric just as lovely in a decade or two. 

“Have you made a decision?” The vendor had been watching him while he examined the fabric.

“I believe so.” Aziraphale cast one last look at the fabric, then sighed and stepped away. “I’m afraid I’m not in need of any more fabric at the moment.”

The vendor’s face fell. 

“Buck up.” Aziraphale passed him a coin. “I’m terribly sorry for taking your time.”

They exchanged a few more words, and then Aziraphale went back out into the street. It was late morning now, and the market was rather busy with people purchasing supplies for when Shabbat began in the evening. Aziraphale didn’t need much that way, though he had agreed to pick up some more candles for the family that had invited him to dinner. 

He paused by the cart of a vendor selling nuts, inhaling the fragrances of the market. 

A shiver ran down his spine as he caught the scent* of something out of place. There was a Demon close by. It wasn’t Crawly.

(* It wasn’t _quite_ a scent, in a human sense of the word, but that was how they spoke of it. This was a holdover from when Crowley and Aziraphale were translating their language into a human one for the very first time in Ur. Crowley had gone through a phase during which they refused to learn any other sense words and described everything as scent. In this particular case, it stuck.)

Aziraphale turned on his heel, scanning the crowd. No one immediately seemed out of place. He could still smell a Demon, though. 

“Hello?” 

A few humans turned to give him confused looks. 

“Ah.” He gave them an uncomfortable smile. “Excuse me.” He turned and began walking briskly away. 

If there was a Demon near, and he hadn’t sensed them, they were likely attempting to ambush him. It wasn’t a pleasant prospect. He’d had relatively few run-ins with Demons of late, and didn’t fancy starting again if he could help it.

He turned into a short, nearly empty street. A few humans remained, but he pushed a gentle suggestion they had other things to do toward them, and they dispersed.

Aziraphale went to stand in the centre of the street and turned. “Show yourself.”

“I don’t want to,” said a voice from behind him.

Aziraphale spun, but saw no one there. 

Drat. Perhaps this would be more difficult than he’d anticipated.

“I assure you, it’s in our mutual best interest if you leave these humans alone. Jerusalem is under my protection.”

“I don’t care,” the voice said, now from his left.

Aziraphale sighed heavily. At least it was early—he would have time to freshen up before Shabbat. 

“Principality, is it?” The voice was on the opposite side from where it had been.

“I shan’t tell you.”

“You’re the one in the reports.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Principality Aziraphale… former Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”

Oh dear. That was new. “Who told you?”

“I used to work under Dagon.”

Lord of the Tablets. He’d heard Crawly complain about her. So this Demon, whoever they were, had read about him in Crawly’s reports. It did make sense.

“Nothing to say, Angel?”

Aziraphale clenched his jaw. “ _Don’t_ call me that.” 

“Why?”

“I’m not going to tell you.”

“Aww.” 

The Demonic presence coalesced behind him, and Aziraphale spun in just enough time to deflect a blow from a knife.

The Demon stepped back, hissing. It wasn’t Crawly’s hiss, though—that was much softer. This was the rough hiss of a goose. 

Aziraphale adopted defensive posture, gaze flicking over the new Demon. It was little wonder they’d chosen to be invisible before. They had knife-like feathers of mottled brown down their arms and strewn through their hair. Their eyes were a uniform, impersonal shade of grey. The humans would not take kindly to someone so obviously not like themselves. 

“What’s wrong, Angel? Scared to smite me?”

“No,” said Aziraphale, truthfully, then stepped in close, aiming a precise blow to their diaphragm.

The Demon dropped their knife and doubled over, wheezing. 

Aziraphale snatched up the knife and took the Demon in hand, pressing it to their neck. “It’s just rather a lot of effort and mess.”

The Demon caught their breath, hissing again. “Are you going to discorporate me?”

“If I must.” 

They jabbed an elbow back toward him, but he manoeuvred around it easily. 

“Really. Would you like to surrender? If you tunnel right back to Hell now, this needn’t be any more unpleasant than it already is.”

“You won’t do it,” said the Demon hoarsely. “You’re weak. Everyone knows you’re a pathetic excuse for an—”

Aziraphale slit their throat and stepped back, letting them slump into the dust. He watched them choke for a moment, then looked away, wiping the knife clean on an inner layer of his clothing. When he looked back, the Demon’s body was still. 

Goodness. He swallowed down the bile in his throat. It didn’t get any easier, really. Quite the opposite, the longer he spent down here. He knew they weren’t properly dead—just discorporated—but he couldn’t help but see the humanity of them, Demon or not. 

He snapped his fingers, and the body disintegrated into dust. It wouldn’t do for the humans to see it and worry.

Well. He’d hoped to buy candles sooner rather than later, but a bath was in order first. 


	320. 821 BC - Napata, Kush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for depression, alcohol as a coping mechanism, and reference to torture.

_821 BC. Napata, Kush._

“He’s just—just, beautiful.” Harsiyotef, a human Crowley had been tempting for two or three months, took a gulp from his cup of wine. “Smooth skin. And his eyes’re like… like the night sky. Nearly black. Could lost in them.”

Crowley examined her fingernails. “Yeah?” She was considerably less drunk than he was, though she’d had just as much. Didn’t really matter—it was funny watching him get increasingly sozzled as the night wore on. 

“Yeah. Beautiful, y’know?”

“I know.” Crowley took a proper drink of her wine this time. 

“Anyway.” Harsiyotef slumped forward, propping his chin up on his hands. “I think he’s into men, too.”

“Lucky you.”

“I know!” He sighed. “I don’t know if he likes me, though.”

Crowley sniffed. “Does he hate you?”

“No.” Harsiyotef frowned at her. “Why would he?”

“Dunno. ’S something, though, if he doesn’t hate you.”

“You’re strange.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

Not much to say to that. Of course she was strange. She wasn’t even a human. 

“What happened to your—y’know the one I mean.”

“I don’t know.”

Harsiyotef gestured vaguely. “You do. I mean… the one you left behind.”

Crowley inhaled sharply and sat up straight. “When’d I tell you about that?”

“Couple of weeks ago.” He shrugged. “I guess you were drunk, but I don’t remember it being much worse than usual.”

Blast. She remembered now. Had a fuzzy sort of impression of monologuing about Aziraphale for upwards of ten minutes.

“What happened to him?”

“I left.” She slumped again. “’S not important.”

“You sounded pretty. Y’know.”

“Do I.”

“Broken up over it.”

Crowley hissed. This was a temptation, blast it all. “It’s not a big deal,” she managed. 

“No, you seemed broken up. How come you were supposed to kill each other?”

“We’re not. Er, not yet, anyway. Not for another three thous—er, years, give or take.” She scrubbed a hand over her face under her veil. “Just. Don’t worry about it.”

“Why didn’t you tell him?”

Crowley looked up at him. “Tell him… what?”

“Y’know. How you feel?”

“I don’t—” Ugh. Her throat was all tight, and her chest bloody _hurt_.

If they were human, it wouldn’t have to be like this. But no, she was a Demon. The one and only Demon in the whole fucking universe unlucky enough to have fallen in love. It wasn’t fair. 

“It didn’t matter,” she said finally, fingers clenching around her cup. “ _Doesn’t_ matter. I’m not meant to be able to feel that way. And even if I did, it still wouldn’t matter.”

Harsiyotef blinked at her, head cocked at an almost comically quizzical angle. “But you love him.”

Crowley took a deep breath, clenching her jaw. This was it—she could storm out now and save the temptation for later. That wouldn’t help the creeping shame on her skin, though, or the sticky feeling in the pit of her stomach. 

What the Heaven. Might as well see what happened if she did what she wanted for once in her bloody life.

She got to her feet, shoulders drawn up to her ears as she leaned over him and her voice went deadly. “Yeah, I love him. And you worked it out. Wahoo. It doesn’t fucking matter; it’s never going to matter. It’s a joke.”

He shrank back in his seat, cowering.

Too bad that didn’t help her feel any better.

“I’m a joke.” She straightened up and ripped off her veil. Might as well fuck the temptation, too. “Ha-ha, look at the Demon unlucky enough to fall for a literal angel! The height of comedy, me.”

“What—what—?” He pointed a trembling finger at her eyes.

Crowley scoffed. “I’m a Demon. Here to tempt you lot into making each other miserable. And if I ever get done up here, I’ll go torture your immortal souls.”

“What?”

“Yeah.” She picked up her cup of wine and drained it, then set it down again. “Anyway. Ciao.”

She stalked out of Harsiyotef’s house and out into the night. It wasn’t fair. She’d fucked up her whole temptation and spilled her bleeding guts out over the metaphorical floor, and she still didn’t feel one tiny bit better. 

That was one thing you could say for God: She was good at making life hurt. 


	321. 808 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of death.

_808 BC. Jerusalem, Kingdom of Judah, Canaan._

“It wouldn’t be for very long.” Sered looked stricken. “Please, Aziraphale, I know it’s a lot to ask, but it would help him so much.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. He’d been acquainted with Sered’s father for some time now, and the poor chap was dying. “I do appreciate what you’re trying to do for him; I’m just not sure what you’d hope for me to do.”

After all, he wasn’t really meant to save humans’ lives. Having a human around who’d been meant to die was all sorts of risky when it came to the Plan, or so he’d been told.

“I don’t expect you to do anything.” He sighed. “It’s just… you’re one of his oldest friends. And most of the others have passed already.”

Oh, dear. “I hear that, dear boy. I suppose—well, are you quite certain it’s what he needs right now? I’m hardly the best of company for such goings-on. And I couldn’t possibly encroach on your hospitality at a time like this.”

“Please.”

He sighed. On one hand, he didn’t fancy subjecting himself to a human’s death again. He liked Simeon well enough as humans went, and he’d like to remember him alive, thank you very much. On the other, however, he was aware that comforting a dying man was most likely the good thing to do, and as such, what he was expected to do.

He did have a creeping sense that, though it was the good thing to do, other Angels might not have sufficient sense of mortality to understand that immediately, but that was neither here nor there. 

Hmm. 

“Are you sure?” He asked finally. “I will, if you truly believe it’s what he needs, but… like I said, I’d hate to be a burden when your family’s going through something like this.”

“We could use the hand, honestly.”

“Ah.” He swallowed. “Very well, then. I’ll come.”


	322. 799 BC - Babylon, Mesopotamia

_799 BC. Babylon, Assyrian Empire, Mesopotamia._

Crowley stood in front of a shop, hands on her hips. It wasn’t a particularly remarkable shop, all things considered. There were a number of pottery pieces displayed for purchase. It was small and a bit rundown, as shops went. 

This particular shop, however, had the unique status of sitting precisely atop the former location of the Tower of Babel. 

It shouldn’t have surprised her, really, that the tower was gone. Seventeen hundred years was a long time. But that didn’t make it any less surreal to stand there and know that it had been torn down. 

There was another reason Crowley was in this particular spot, though, and that one she could actually claim credit for. The road she’d made unreasonably narrow back in the 1800’s was still just as obnoxious. There was a lull in traffic now, which let her stand in the middle of it, but she’d seen one collision even as it was. 

Infrastructure increasingly seemed the way to go for long-term dividends. She wasn’t quite ready to pitch it to Hell, but it was something to keep thinking about. 

A human walked out of the shop and gawked at her. “Can I help you?”

“Nah.”

“Do you… need something?”

“Just enjoying the view. D’you know what used to be here?”

“What?”

Crowley grinned. “Not gonna tell you.”

“What?”

She turned and strolled away.

There was just one damper on her return to Babylon: there was an Angel in the city. 

It definitely wasn’t Aziraphale. She’d know if it was, even if it had been nearly two and a half centuries. 

No, this was some other Angel, and not likely to be nearly as forgiving as Aziraphale. Which was just as well. They’d keep her on her toes. 

After all, she’d been in Babylon before it was even a proper city. She’d be blessed if she let some upstart Angel take it from her. 


	323. 791 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

_791 BC. Jerusalem, Kingdom of Judah, Canaan._

Aziraphale settled into his seat and set a tablet on his desk. It was quite an old tablet. Specifically, it was a story written by a woman he’d known for a year or two in Ur, once upon a time. He’d assumed it lost when he was recalled to Heaven in the 1930’s. But he’d seen it in the market this afternoon, and persuaded the vendor to part with it for a modest price.

It wasn’t really remarkable, beyond its age and sentimental value. The vendor hadn’t even recognized the age. That came of not speaking Sumerian, most likely. 

“Aziraphale?”

He started and lifted his hands from the tablet to look back at Isaac, Sered’s youngest grandson. “Ah. Hello. May I help you?”

“I heard you got a new tablet. Can I see?”

Aziraphale sighed. He’d moved house some fifteen years ago now in order to be closer at hand while one of the children or other was small. Since then, he’d never quite got around to moving out again.

It was times like these he wished he had. 

“I suppose so,” he said finally. “But no touching. It’s terribly old.”

Isaac walked over to see the tablet, his eyes widening when he saw it. “It’s the old writing!”

“Cuneiform,” said Aziraphale snippily.

“That’s so cool. I can only read Hebrew. Is that Elamite?”

“Definitely not.”

“Aww. Akkadian?”

“No.”

Isaac’s eyes went wide. “What is it?”

“This tablet is written in Sumerian.”

“Woah.” He looked at the tablet. “Can I touch it?”

“Certainly not.” Aziraphale gently prodded the tablet farther away from the boy’s grubby, grasping fingers. “Don’t you have… things to do?”

“No. I’m done studying for now, and I don’t have to do my chores until they realize where I am.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Do you mean to tell me you are skiving off your duties?”

He shook his head. “I’ll do them, don’t worry. But the baby’s loud right now, and it hurts my head.”

“There’s another baby?”

Isaac raised one eyebrow. “Yes…”

Drat, he was meant to be paying attention to these things. “Of course! The baby. How could I forget.”

Isaac regarded him suspiciously for another moment. Aziraphale resisted an entirely irrational urge to ignore him and begin working on his tablet, but refrained. It would be rude.

“Can you teach me?” Isaac said finally.

“Come again?”

“Sumerian, I mean.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Wouldn’t you like to learn something more… hip?Akkadian, perhaps?”

“You speak Akkadian?”

“I have, yes. I don’t do it very much these days.”

“That’s so cool.”

“If you say so.” Aziraphale redirected his attention to the tablet. “Now then. The accent is often the most troublesome. Even those who claim to speak it these days sound frightfully strange, so you’ll need to pay close attention…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sumerian was still in use as a written language in this time period, but had ceased to be spoken around 2000. It’s also worth noting that Aziraphale’s friend’s tablet is entirely fictional.


	324. 776 BC - Babylon, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence.

_776 BC. Babylon, Assyrian Empire, Mesopotamia._

Crowley spun in the middle of the street, a knife in her hand. “Oi! I know you’re out there.”

Light flashed out the corner of her eye, and Crowley whirled to see the Angel approaching. Their irises glowed wrathful gold. 

Crowley squinted against the harsh light of their halo. Her veil had come in handy way too often since she arrived in this Satan-forsaken city. “Look. For the last time, this is ridiculous.”

“I am an emissary of the Almighty.”

“No shit. Couldn’t have guessed from all the—” she gestured at the Angel’s general being— “y’know. Holiness.”

“Surrender.”

“Nah.”

“You will be destroyed.”

Crowley pouted theatrically. “And I’d had such grand plans for tomorrow.”

The Angel lunged, bringing a staff down toward her head.

Crowley danced to the side. “Come on. Is that all you’ve got?”

The Angel swiped again.

“What are you, then? An Angel? An archangel?”

“I am the Principality Aspariel.”

Crowley stooped to pick up a handful of dust off the ground and threw it at them, then stepped back as they rubbed their face. “You sure about that? I mean, I know what Principalities are like, and you’re not…” Fuck, they were thinking about Aziraphale again. 

The Angel straightened up again and spun their staff melodramatically. The phantom outline of their wings hovered just on the other side of Earthly reality. They scowled. “I’m not what?”

“You’re a right wanker is what you are.” Crowley bared her teeth and hurled her knife at the Angel.

They dodged. “You’re a Demon. What do you know of Principalities?”

Of bloody course they had to pick up on that. One little slip of the tongue, as usual. Heaven. As if it wasn’t bad enough she was in love with an Angel, she had to go and _say_ things. 

Well, if the Angel was going to be like that and think they could get away with it, they had another thing coming. “Of course I’m a Demon.” She sidestepped another blow of the staff. “Not the sort of thing you can forget.”

“Leave Babylon.”

“Nah.” She conjured up and threw another knife at them.

It caught the Angel in the shoulder and they reeled back, blinking at her as the gold of their irises spread out to cover their whole eye. 

And people said her eyes were disturbing. At least Crowley had _pupils_. 

“I’m out.” Crowley waved, then snapped her fingers, pulling herself back to her house.

It wasn’t far off, so hopefully Hell wouldn’t get on her back about it. And she had a decent excuse this time. ‘Avoiding discorporation’ was a Heaven of a lot better than ‘took a turn around the city while drunk and couldn’t work out how to get back home.’

So long as ‘Aspariel’ kept their nose out of her business. If Heaven found out that there was a Demon in love with Aziraphale…

Well, Crowley knew first-hand exactly how merciful that lot was. 


	325. 770 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to the Flood.

_770 BC. Jerusalem, Kingdom of Judah, Canaan._

Aziraphale frowned. “Not quite all the animals.”

Isaac stopped explaining the story of the Flood to the assembled cousins and turned to look at him. “What?”

“Noah didn’t save quite all the animals. One or two escaped, which was really quite tragic. Though to be fair it was an incredibly stressful situation.”

“Which animals?” One of the children asked.

“A unicorn. Erm. A particular type of cockroach. And a species of bird with an especially irritating call.” The last sort he hadn’t noticed were gone until* twenty years later. “There may have been others, but I don’t believe anyone missed them.”

(* Crowley had mentioned offhand that it was the season for them to start singing, and they ended up coming to the mutual realization that neither of them had heard that particular bird call at all since the Flood. At this, Aziraphale accused Crowley of deliberately keeping the birds from being caught, Crowley accused Ham of overlooking them intentionally because Ham was known to dislike them, and they ended not speaking to one another for several weeks.)

“How come?” 

“Well, the only reason anyone noticed the disappearance of the cockroach was because one of Sedeqetelebab’s brothers had been fond of them, so she went looking for them afterward and was rather disappointed when she couldn’t find any. So it seems fair to assume there were other species of creepy-crawlies and unobtrusive beings which were lost in all the fuss.”

Isaac cleared his throat, and Aziraphale looked up at him.

Oh dear, he’d said rather too much, hadn’t he?

“How do you know that?” One of the kids asked.

“Er. Well, it’s just how my family tells the story. My mother is rather opinionated on such things.”

Which was entirely true! In a manner of speaking. God was not, strictly speaking, his mother. She was, however, the being that Created him, so in a certain, very reductive and human way of thinking about it, She was. 

Isaac crossed his arms. “Is she really?”

“Yes. It’s been passed down through her family, you know. How, er.” He noted himself twisting his clothing and deliberately lowered his hands. “That is, how exactly the Flood went. They’re an… enthusiastic bunch.”

“Hmm.” Isaac frowned. “Right. Thank you, Aziraphale.”


	326. 758 BC - Babylon, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence, discorporation, injury, deliberate/malicious deadnaming, depression, and themes of self-harm/suicide.
> 
> There is a summary in the end notes for those who wish to skip. :)

_758 BC. Babylon, Assyrian Empire, Mesopotamia_.

Crowley held up her hands in a placating gesture. “Guys, guys. Come on. Let’s be reasonable here. I’m sure there’s something you want.”

“You are an accused accessory to theft,” one of the human soldiers said. “Come peacefully.”

“Can’t we talk? I mean, if you haven’t got any proof yet—”

“The man who told us about you said you make a habit of orchestrating crimes.”

Crowley grimaced. “I mean, I wouldn’t say _orchestrating_. More like—oi, watch where you point that thing.”

The soldier brandished a spear at her. “You confessed. Stand down.”

It wasn’t worth making a scene when she could just get out later, and a scene was liable to be noticed by the Angel. She glowered at the soldiers, but held out her wrists. “Tell Adad-nirari he’s a nark.”

“Our informants are protected.”

“Yeah, which is why you just confirmed it was him. Could’ve been Sharru-ukin, too.” Crowley bared her teeth at them in her least sincere grin.

Another soldier stepped forward with a length of rope, and held it up to her wrists.

The hemp burned her skin, and Crowley recoiled, but the soldier tightened the rope. “Eurgh, that burns. Where’d you get that?”

The soldier didn’t respond, just knotted it. 

Crowley swayed, suddenly lightheaded. Oh, fuck, it was blessed, and worse than the last time humans had got her in holy bonds. “Where’d you get it?”

“You’ll get to meet him. He’s overseeing the investigation.”

Please, let it not be Aspariel. “Tall? Funny eyes?”

“This way.” The soldier tugged at the rope, and Crowley stumbled forward.

They led her through the streets of Babylon to a building where she was put in a small, windowless room. It wasn’t lit, either, which probably would’ve been a lot more unpleasant for a human. As it was, her vision was slightly darker than usual, presumably as a result of the rope. 

Finally, the door opened, and Aspariel stepped in.

Crowley looked at the ground, jaw clenched. Of course it was them, blast it all. “Come to gloat, have you?”

“Angels do not gloat.”

“Like Heaven you don’t.”

“Indeed.”

Crowley hissed.

The Principality’s footsteps halted in front of her, and a rough hand tore off her veil. “Ugh. Monstrous.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Aspariel sighed. “Tell me, Crawly—”

“My name is—”

“ _Crawly_ is what you’re called in our side’s reports. And you’re not in a position to disagree.”

She knew she should’ve told Aziraphale her name.

“Tell me. Would you like to repent?”

Crowley glared up at them. “What?”

“Do you want to repent?”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” said Crowley, voice low. “I wouldn’t go back to Heaven if my life depended on it.”

Aspariel pouted. “It does.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” she repeated. 

And it was true. It _was_. She didn’t do anything to deserve Falling, or being assigned to Earth, or falling for an Angel. Somebody had it out for her, and that somebody was almost certainly God.

“You did,” Aspariel persisted. “That is why you are a Demon.”

Fuck it, she was probably going to die anyway. Might as well say what she was thinking.

“I bet you like to think that,” Crowley said quietly. “Bet it helps you sleep at night when you think of all the humans who’ve suffered and died because of your side. Or, wait—you don’t sleep.” She chuckled. “Because you Angels? You know what? You’re all fucking terrified. You’re afraid you’ll end up like me. And the thing is, there’s nothing stopping you becoming like me. Just how God’s feeling on any given day.”

“Stop this.”

“You are, see? I can see it on your face. Terrified. So you take it out on us. ’Cause you think, ‘surely they’ve done something to deserve that.’ But it doesn’t help, does it? Because you know we didn’t, and She hurt us, and you did fuck-all to help, and that terrifies you because you _know_ that’s bad, deep down. Whatever God says.”

“Blasphemy,” said Aspariel.

“What’re you going to do? Smite me? Go on. I don’t care. Besides, it’s just killing a defenseless being. What could be more Angelic than—”

Aspariel drew a sword from their side and stabbed Crowley through the chest.

She looked down, her brain catching up, eyes widening at the sight. “That’s it,” she said haltingly. “Ssshit, that hurts.” 

Crowley’s body was dying now, chemicals and nerve endings panicking to work out how to function. She looked back up at Aspariel, panting. “There’sss nothing prot—protecting you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Crowley is arrested for inciting theft and tied in holy rope. Then she is brought to Aspariel, who threatens to discorporate her. Crowley points out the moral failings of Heaven and how, given that she Fell without doing anything wrong, there's nothing Aspariel can do to avoid the same fate with any degree of confidence. Aspariel is insecure about all that, so they stab and discorporate Crowley.


	327. 751 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for alcohol.

_751 BC. Jerusalem, Kingdom of Judah, Canaan_.

Aziraphale stepped inside Isaac’s house as Chavah, his wife, shut the door behind him. “I must say, it smells scrumptious in here. I hope I’m not late?”

“No, there are a few minutes before we need to light the candles. Isaac is still wrangling the children, too.” Chavah beckoned. “How was your week?”

“Acceptable.” He followed her to where the table was half of the way to being set. “Though I did have one or two tasks which took longer than anticipated. Might I be of use in any way?”

“It would be helpful if you poured the wine.” Chavah returned to the table with a plate holding the loaves of challah bread, which she placed on the table.

There was a clattering noise down the hall and Chavah turned to look toward it. “What’s going on down there?”

“It’s fine!” Isaac called back. 

Aziraphale directed his attention to the wine, which he poured into the family’s silver kiddush cup. A drop spilled, and he miracled it away. 

When he’d finished, Chavah was already returning with more food, which she placed on the table. The rest of the adults in the family had gathered around the table, and Isaac arrived with the children not long after.

They said the blessing over the candles, then the wine and finally the challah. 

“Aziraphale, it’s good to see you again,” said Joash, one of Isaac’s uncles. “You’re looking well.”

Aziraphale smiled as best he could as he tore off some challah for himself. “As are you.”

Really, he was beginning to think he’d stayed too long. After all, he’d appeared middle-aged when Isaac was young. He still did now, which must have appeared rather strange, considering how Isaac’s beard and hair were already greying. 

And yet, he wasn’t sure he could pull himself away. There was something comforting about staying with a family. He had companions with whom to observe the holidays, who believed in the same God as he did. It was rather nice, if he was quite honest. 

Perhaps more importantly, he had only rarely thought of Crawly these past few decades, which was considerable improvement. Only when he’d had a bit too much to drink, or when he saw a particularly lean human in the street. There were a few other circumstances, but those were perhaps the most common. 

“Aziraphale?” 

He looked up to see Chavah watching him, expression slightly worried. Drat, he’d thought too hard. He smiled at her. “What is it, dear lady?”

“I just wanted to be sure you were well.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Quite well.” 

She nodded. “I’m glad to hear it.”

He took another bite of food and chewed precisely, listening to the humans chatter and sing. 

And, for the time being, Aziraphale was happy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depiction of the Shabbat meal is based on my own experiences celebrating Shabbat with my stepmother, who is Jewish, and some historical research. However, because I am not Jewish and don’t remember the 8th century BC, there are most likely some inaccuracies.


	328. 738 BC - Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to torture.

_738 BC. Hell_. 

“What d’you mean, I can’t go back?” Crowley looked from Dagon to Beelzebub and back again. “I’m your bessst operative on Earth.” The lack of body made her hiss slightly.

“Thou hast been dizzcorporated twizze,” said Beelzebub from zzer perch on zzer throne. “Thou art not the only Demon who needzz a body.”

“Twice in more than three thousand years!” Crowley crossed her arms. “That’s loads longer than whatever poor sssap you send up in my place. Besides, I’ve got the experience working up there.”

She’d spent twenty years waiting for her audience, and she wasn’t about to stay in Hell. With her rank, she’d wind up doing a desk job. Or maybe they’d send her to the torture pits, which was worse.

Dagon turned toward Beelzebub. “My lord?”

Beelzebub scowled at her. “What?”

“She has a point,” said Dagon quietly. “And the boss likes her.”

Crowley felt her jaw drop. “He what?”

“Reads your reports constantly, he does. I’ve got a whole crew of Demons copying them so he can take one set while we keep the other for the records.”

Beelzebub waved a hand. “Shut up. It izz of no matter to me what happens to Crowzley’s reports.”

Crowley had to act fast, or someone would be sent to replace her. “Hang on a minute,” she said. “Who’s telling the boss I’ve been brought back down, then? If he’s reading my reports consistently, won’t he notice they’ve stopped?”

Dagon and Beelzebub exchanged a glance. 

“Why dozzt thou wish to go back?”

“I don’t,” said Crowley quickly. “Er, I mean, it’s the place I serve best. Lots of skillsss, me. And, y’know, I’ve got unfinished business.”

“Unfinished business?” Dagon asked.

“Aspariel.” She sniffed. “We’ve got unfinished business.”

“The Angel who discorporated you?” 

“Yup. Keen on revenge, me.”

Beelzebub frowned. “Why didst thou fail to exact vengeance on the other Angel?”

“Uriel’s an Archangel, this one’s a Principality.”

“The other one,” Dagon said. “Ass-hair-a-fail.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said before she could stop herself. Bless it. “He’s, er. Deceptively good at staying alive. And his job. I thwart him plenty, though, which you can see on my reports.”

Beelzebub narrowed zzer eyes. “I will… conzzider your request.”


	329. 727 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mild discussion of illness.

_727 BC. Jerusalem, Kingdom of Judah, Canaan._

Aziraphale offered Isaac an elbow to assist him down the steps into the road. “There you are, dear boy. Can you manage?”

On solid ground again, Isaac leaned on his cane. “Yes, I think so. Back home, then?”

“I should think so. You seem a bit tired out for anything else, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“We can’t all age as well as you, Aziraphale.” Isaac began walking slowly down the street.

Aziraphale coughed uncomfortably and followed behind. “Ah. Yes, well. You know how it is.” He paused for a moment, but Isaac was dreadfully silent. He’d grown quieter in his old age. “How, er. How is Chavah?”

“You saw her last night,” said Isaac with a note of amusement in his voice.

“I know that,” said Aziraphale. “Excuse my attempts to make conversation. How is she overall, then, in your estimation?”

“Well,” said Isaac. “I think my illness is getting to her.”

Oh, dear. Isaac had grown increasingly infirm these past few years, and though Aziraphale did what he could, there was only so much one would write off in the name of general good. “Hmm. The children have seemed uneasy as well.”

Isaac nodded, and Aziraphale slowed down to wait while he navigated a slick part of the road where someone appeared to have spilled a fairly large portion of beer. Once he was past, he joined Aziraphale, and they began walking again.

“And you, Aziraphale?”

“What about me?”

“How are you?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale frowned. “Well, thank you.”

“Really?” Isaac glanced toward him for a moment before redirecting his attention to the ground before him. “I can’t imagine it’s easy, watching so many people die.”

Aziraphale inhaled sharply and stopped. “I beg your pardon?”

“You don’t age,” said Isaac plainly. “And I know I’m growing old, so it won’t be long now.” 

“I—I suppose you’re right.” He clasped his hands behind himself and began walking again. “I’m… accustomed to it, I suppose. Insofar as anyone can be. I know what will happen, and there’s very little I can do to change it.”

Isaac made a sympathetic noise. “That must be difficult.”

“It is as it is. And it’s not as though there aren’t those who age as I do.”

“There are?”

“A few.” Not many he spoke with on the regular, but… some.

“I’m glad.” 

“I will miss you,” said Aziraphale softly. “There’s no question of that. It’s simply… well, I try not to engage in that sort of attachment.”

“Maybe you should try it.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “No.”


	330. 722 BC - Babylon, Mesopotamia

_722 BC. Babylon, Assyrian Empire, Mesopotamia_. 

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Crowley said. “Just a little bit of theft, and you’ll have all the money you want! I won’t let them catch you, don’t worry.”

The human, a young woman named Naqiya-Zakutu whom she’d met a few weeks earlier, looked delightfully conflicted. “I don’t know… I’m not sure Semiramis would like that if she found out.”

“I mean, maybe, but she doesn’t have to know.” Crowley paused. “ _And_ , just think of all the things you’ll be able to do for her when this works out. I’ve seen how you look at some of the nobles. Imagine if you could buy her something like that to wear, eh?”

“With money that isn’t mine!”

Crowley sighed, trying not to betray her annoyance. “I thought it didn’t bother you?”

“It doesn’t bother me.”

“Then why not go ahead?”

“Semiramis is a good person. I want to be good enough for her.” 

“Okay, I get wanting to stay on good terms.” Crowley paused, centring herself. She had to project proper confusion. “But, I mean—it doesn’t make any sense, being good. It’s full of logical fallacies, and idealism, and—and self-righteous wankers! Which Semiramis isn’t, obviously, but… they’re there all right.”

“I won’t do it.” Naqiya-Zakutu lifted her chin. “I won’t steal. I love her, and I won’t betray her trust like that.”

Crowley groaned. “Why? Why would you do that? I mean, you’re just fine on your own. Why should you change how you do things for her?”

“Because I love her, and she sees something better in me.” Naqiya-Zakutu scowled. “Why can’t you understand that? I thought we were friends.”

“I mean, why not just stop being in love? Go someplace far away where you can just be yourself, instead of doting on a woman who doesn’t even like you.”

“She does love me.” Naqiya-Zakutu crossed her arms. “And honestly, Crowley, I think this is your problem, not mine. I’m not going to steal for you, and that’s the end of it.”

“Well.” There went the temptation, blast it all. Crowley sneered. “Fine. Be that way. I’ll find somebody else.” 


	331. 707 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for light discussion of gender dysphoria/implied cissexism.

_707 BC. Jerusalem, Kingdom of Judah, Canaan._

Aziraphale looked up from his translation work. “Hello? Come in!”

The door to his home was conveniently unlocked, and a small child pushed it open. They looked perhaps six.* He was getting better at judging ages. They shut the door behind them. 

(* Or perhaps fifteen? Or four? Seven?)

“Hello there,” said Aziraphale. “How can I help you?”

“Uncle Aziraphale? Are you busy?”

Oh, jolly good. The child was verbal. “Not terribly so.” He frowned. “Are you all right?”

“I don’t know.” They were worrying the hem of their tunic, not meeting his gaze. “Are. I mean, someone said…” Their voice got smaller with each word before trailing off.

Aziraphale set down his work and leaned forward. “What did they say?”

“They said you’re the one to ask if, er. If we have questions about… gender.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale nodded. “That may be true.”

The child’s shoulders dropped in apparent relief. “Really?”

“I’m afraid I never really took to gender myself, so I can’t say I understand it precisely, but I have been around a long time.” He pushed his work to the side—translation would have to wait for the time being. Then he gestured to a chair behind the child which hadn’t been there before. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

They looked back at the chair and looked mildly surprised it its sudden appearance, but took it in stride in the way most children seemed to, then climbed into the chair. They curled into a ball, chin tucked behind their knees against their chest, and watched him.

Aziraphale smoothed the fabric of his robes over his thighs, sighing before lacing his fingers together in his lap and making eye contact with the child. “Now, then. What is your question, my dear?”

“I’m a girl,” the child blurted.

“Ah.” Aziraphale smiled. “Noted.”

She blinked at him. 

“Did you have a question?” Really, he did want to ensure her safety, but he had things to do. 

“Er… I don’t know.” She untucked her chin and set it on her knees. “Have you met other kids like me?”

“What, girls?”

“I mean, kids whose parents said they were something else.”

“Oh, too many to count. Simply too many.” He smiled. “It’s quite normal, really. Gender is a human phenomenon, at heart.”

“So…” She sat forward in the chair, letting her legs dangle toward the ground. “You don’t have one?”

“A gender? No, not as such. I generally choose to appear more masculine for ease of conduct, but that’s all. And I don’t grow—er, that is, _wear_ a beard, which you may have noticed rather confuses some people.” He paused. “I also know people who chose to be men, or women, or both, or to switch off between them at—” 

Oh, er. 

He wasn’t thinking about them.

“So it’s okay?”

He gathered himself again. “More than ‘okay,’ dear girl.” He smiled. “It’s absolutely splendid, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

She grinned, looking down at her knees as she kicked her feet. “Do you think… do you think I could be named after Aunt Miryam? I think she’s pretty and cool.”

“Aunt Miryam is indeed ‘cool.’ You can be named whatever you like.”

Miryam looked at him. “Wow.” She hopped down from the chair. “Thanks, Uncle Aziraphale!” She skipped to the door.

“My pleasure. Have a lovely day,” he called.

Miryam was already out the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just needed more queer support Aziraphale, and this happened. 
> 
> When researching this scene, I found some conflicting stuff on how ancient Jewish communities felt about people who weren’t just standard men or women. On one hand, I found a really neat [sermon](https://rac.org/blog/what-torah-teaches-us-about-gender-fluidity-and-transgender-justice) from a Reform rabbi about genderfluid/trans/intersex people in the Torah. On the other, there seemed to be some stuff that was less positive from other traditions? I would have researched more except that I already spent two hours on it, which is not ideal in a story of this length. 
> 
> I ended up aiming for showing people as middling-to-positive on it here (depending on the individual, though that doesn't really come across in one scene), as opposed to hands-down-queer-friendly, which is my natural instinct. If any readers happen to be Jewish, see issues with this, and feel up to letting me know what’s wrong, I’d love to hear it.


	332. 700 BC - Babylon, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence, blood, discorporation, depressive behaviour, and threats of torture. 
> 
> Summary in end notes for those who want to skip. :)

_700 BC. Babylon, Assyrian Empire, Mesopotamia._

Crowley circled Aspariel, her knife in hand. This was their third run-in since she’d returned from Hell, and she was honestly getting tired of it. 

“Give in, Demon,” said Aspariel. “We both know you cannot win.”

“Yeah? What makes you so sure?”

“I have bested you once before.”

“Ehh… hardly fair play though, was it? This time you haven’t got your blessed little toys to hide behind. Or humans, for that matter.”

Aspariel’s golden eyes flashed. “I do _not_ hide behind humans.”

“Pretty sure sending them to do the hard bit and only coming to kill me when I’m restrained counts as hiding. Sorry to burst your bubble.”

“My… what?”

“What d’you suppose would happen if I told your superiors, hmm? Did you tell them that you got help to discorporate a Demon? Bet they wouldn’t be too pleased to learn you cheated.”

Aspariel’s face screwed up in a snarl. “I imagine it would be similar to what yours would do to you if they learned that you are in love.”

Crowley stopped circling. “What?”

“You are in love.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I can feel it. I am an Angel.”

Something like dread settled into Crowley’s gut. “You… you—no, no, you’re bluffing.”

“You are in love. I didn’t believe it at first. How could a Demon ever—”

Crowley lunged forward and tackled Aspariel into the dirt, holding her knife to their throat. “Shut up, or I ssswear to Satan you’ll regret ever getting a body.”

Aspariel’s eyes widened and they raised their hands in surrender. Their staff had clattered away to the side of the road. 

“Sssay you won’t tell anyone,” said Crowley.

“You… you really are in love.” They sounded shocked.

Crowley pressed the dagger into their throat, drawing blood. “Sssay it!”

“I—I won’t tell anyone.”

“Well.” Crowley grinned Demonically, doing her best to exude as much damnation as possible. Her fangs were out, scales tickling her skin. “Y’know how I Fell?”

“How?”

“I told liesss,” Crowley lied. “So… I know you won’t go back on that, hmm? Wouldn’t want to be like me, damned for eternity and in love?”

Aspariel shook their head.

“Good.” Crowley snapped her fingers toward the sky, cursing her blade with Demonic magic, then cut Aspariel’s throat.

She scrambled off them and turned away, gagging involuntarily. 

Crowley left Aspariel’s body behind with the knife and trudged home, shivering violently despite the warm day. They weren’t dead, not really—the cursed blade would keep them in Heaven for a few centuries if she was lucky, but it wasn’t Hellfire by any means. That didn’t help her feel any better.

Fuck, if Aziraphale could see her now.

Then again, he discorporated people too. Or, Demons, anyway. Maybe not humans. 

She entered her house and fell back into the closed door, wiping her eyes with a fist. 

It wasn’t _fair_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Crowley is sparring with Aspariel and arguing. To make a point, Aspariel accuses Crowley of being in love. She gets angry and attacks them, then makes them promise not to tell anyone. She then says that lying was what made her Fall. This frightens Aspariel enough that she is confident they won't tell, and she discorporates them. Then she walks home, shocked and distressed.


	333. 688 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a reference in this scene to a trans man and woman having children together, for those who’d like to avoid it.

_688 BC. Jerusalem, Kingdom of Judah, Canaan._

Aziraphale set a large clay jar down in the kitchen, where Miryam and her oldest daughter, Sarah, were preparing the dinner for Shabbat. “Excuse me?”

Miryam turned from where she’d been stirring a pot. “Oh, Uncle Aziraphale! I’m so glad you could make it.” She glanced to the jar, and back at his face. “Are those new lentils?”

“They are indeed. Where would you like me to put it?”

“Over there,” she said, pointing to a conspicuously empty spot at the wall where a few other jars of similarly large size were lined up. 

Aziraphale picked up the jar with an ease that belied his appearance and crossed the room to set it down.

Miryam turned back to her cooking. “You’ll stay for dinner?” 

“How could I refuse.” Aziraphale straightened up and brushed his hands off. “Might I assist somehow?”

“Hmm.” Miryam leaned down to taste the concoction in the pot she was cooking, then took it off the fire and set it down. She put a hand on her hip, pursing her lips. “I think it’s just about done, actually. Why don’t you go find the rest of the family?”

“Ah, yes. Thank you, dear lady.” He left the kitchen and went into the rest of the house, where Miryam’s husband, Joash, and her father-in-law were entertaining her other two children, who were twins. 

She’d been quite fortunate to find Joash. He was a bright young man, a scribe, and they’d got along splendidly. Also important to her, she and Joash were able to have children together. They were lovely children, too—though Aziraphale had yet to learn the twins’ names.

“Pardon me,” he said. “Miryam says it’s nearly time for dinner.”

Joash and his father stood and led the twins to the table. Aziraphale followed behind, then passed them to go to where Miryam and Sarah were gathering dishes. 

Aziraphale took a pitcher of wine and the kiddush cup, while Miryam carried the pot of stew and Sarah led with the two loaves of challah, grinning proudly. 

He set the wine and kiddush cup down, then sat. He and the rest of the family watched while Sarah covered the bread with a cloth, and Miryam brought out two candles. 

Aziraphale covered his eyes with the rest of the family as Miryam lit the candles and recited the blessing. The kiddush and blessing of the challah followed, and they were able to tuck in.


	334. 676 BC - Babylon, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief innuendo.

_676 BC. Babylon, Assyrian Empire, Mesopotamia._

Crowley sat on a piece of debris, scratching in the dirt with a stick. He’d finished a temptation already this morning, which was notable only because the sun just rose twenty minutes ago. He’d been out all night, just walking around town trying to blow off steam, and decided to get to work. 

The city was a sight these days. One of the Assyrian kings had up and destroyed the whole thing thirteen years back, which had been… a thing. Lots of noise and violence. He had a six-tablet report on it written up to send whenever he got around to it. 

Since then, Babylon had gotten more and more quiet. A lot of the humans left in the first couple years. The ones who stayed weren’t happy. Crowley spent a couple years trying to stir up the dissenters. A whisper here, bit of ‘drunken’ rambling around the right people there. 

Then the king had to come in and undo it all. Esarhaddon was working on rebuilding the place, as if that made up for all his dad did to it. 

Case in point: all the bloody rubble around here.

Though if Crowley was honest, he didn’t entirely mind the rubble. The humans stayed away from it, generally. Bad memories. Except for when they were cleaning it up. But here, in the centre, it was quiet. Crowley could think. 

It was… peaceful.

He’d had a lot of peaceful lately. He didn’t like it. Too much time for stuff like thinking. That was what happened when you discorporated the Angel who’d been annoying you, though. 

Crowley was trying not to think about that. The whole sensing-love thing was… terrifying, really. If Aziraphale found out how he felt, he was royally screwed, and not the good way. 

Then again, he was pretty sure he’d been in love for a lot longer than he’d known that he was in love, and Aziraphale never noticed. Maybe it wasn’t on all the time. Or maybe it was just Aspariel. Or something. 

Crowley threw the stick away, squinting down at his drawing in the dust. 

A round face smiled at him, skin at the corner of his eyes crinkling.

Crowley scrubbed the image away with his foot, hissing. Then he sagged and watched the cloud of dust blow gently away. 

It didn’t matter if Aziraphale could sense love, anyway. It wasn’t as though Crowley was going _back_. Wasn’t going to give Her the satisfaction. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Neo-Assyrian history was weird around this time, folks. I want a period drama about the succession of Esarhaddon…


	335. 667 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence, blood, injury, inadvertent deadnaming, and emotional abuse (Heaven).

_667 BC. Jerusalem, Kingdom of Judah, Canaan._

Aziraphale waited outside the door to Joash’s workplace, hands clasped behind his back as he watched the hustle and bustle of the humans going by. It was late afternoon, and he’d finished his scribe work a bit early. He and Joash didn’t work together, per se, but the shops were close enough together that it wasn’t too much trouble for Aziraphale to escort him home. And Maryam worried more these days, since Joash had begun showing signs of his late father’s illness.

Before terribly long, the door to Joash’s workplace opened and he came out, smiling broadly when he saw Aziraphale. “You’re early.”

“I completed my work a bit quicker than anticipated. How are you?”

“Well.” 

They made their way through the streets back to Joash and Miryam’s house. The sun was warm on his back as he walked. It was late summer now, bordering on autumn. Just another month or so now until Rosh Hashanah. 

He was looking forward to the new year, in a slightly melancholy sort of way. Miryam and Joash’s youngest son, Yechiel, would become a bar mitzvah this year, so it seemed a bit like the end of an era. Insofar as one could consider any fraction of a human lifetime ‘an era.’ 

“You seem thoughtful,” Joash said as they entered a quieter part of the city. 

“Oh.” Aziraphale met his eyes, then glanced back down at the road. “I suppose so. Do you know, the—”

An arm holding a knife swung toward them, and Aziraphale stepped in to block it from hitting Joash just in time. He took the attacker’s wrist in one hand and twisted sharply. There was an unpleasant popping noise, and the attacker fell back with a cry. They ran away between the buildings, clutching their arm.

Aziraphale watched after them, then scanned their surroundings. There didn’t seem to be anyone else close by. Not even when he reached out with his more Angelic senses. The attacker was growing speedily more distant. 

He turned back to Joash. “Are you all right, dear boy? That must have been quite a fright.”

Joash’s expression was stricken.

“Are you quite all right?”

“Are… are you?”

Aziraphale frowned. “I should say so. Why—” he looked down at himself. 

There was a knife in his chest. How strange.

A wave of lightheadedness washed over him. 

“Oh, no… Aziraphale, what do I do?”

“Don’t fret. Er… why don’t you, er, go get Miryam? And pray. That ought to do it.” He smiled unsteadily. He hadn’t really been injured before. Certainly not as badly as this. Being injured required being caught unawares, for him. 

“I can’t leave you,” said Joash.

Aziraphale grimaced, reaching out with his Angelic senses. There were more humans approaching. Oh, dear. 

He looked at Joash again. “I’m afraid you must. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be right as rain soon enough, you’ll see.” He was able to staunch the blood for now by sheer force of will, but it wouldn’t last long. 

Joash nodded once, then hurried away with one last glance back.

As soon as he was out of eyesight, Aziraphale fell to his knees. Goodness gracious, this hurt. He couldn’t fix it, not permanently. What he really needed was another Angel.

He was breathing faster now. It would be all right. After all, this body wasn’t _him_. Though there was a not-insignificant chance he wouldn’t be given another… 

Oh, what would Crawly think if he just disappeared? He’d fancied them rather amenable towards him for—

“Principality.”

Aziraphale looked up to see another Angel standing before him, their blazing core barely contained. A Seraph, perhaps. He wasn’t quite thinking clearly enough to be sure.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “Hello. I think I’m in—ah—a bit of a pickle.”

The Angel stepped forward and removed the knife, sending blood down his front, then pressed a hand to the wound. Holy energy passed through him, lighting him up from the inside, quite literally. 

The Angel stepped back, and Aziraphale nearly fell forward, but caught himself just in time. 

“Be more careful next time,” said the Angel. 

“Of course. I’m terribly sorry. It won’t happen again.”

The Angel nodded once, then vanished.

Aziraphale exhaled slowly, touching one hand to the wet spot on his chest. Then he gathered himself, and stood shakily. 

There were more important things to be getting on with. 


	336. 659 BC - Babylon, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for use of alcohol as a coping mechanism, depression, and blood imagery.   
> There's no actual blood, just like. Imagery. If it were a film it would be worse, but it is not a film.

_659 BC. Babylon, Assyrian Empire, Mesopotamia_. 

Crowley stalked across the main room of his house, holding a jug of wine to his chest with one hand. He’d been drinking for slightly longer than was probably advisable, but at least he was properly drunk now. 

He’d had one of his reports to Hell returned without reaching its destination. It shouldn’t be possible, really, but sometimes things in Hell were just bad like that, for the… Heaven of it. This one had been a report from when he was in Tyre, though. 

Said report was now sitting in a pile of charred dust in his hearth. 

Made him wonder if She was more powerful than people thought. Obviously, she was omnipotent, but the general consensus was that she left Hell alone. 

“Isn’t that the point of Your little games? Fair chance for everybody? Wind us up and watch us go?” 

His voice echoed in his empty house, and he took a swig of wine. It was too close to vinegar for his taste, but he already finished the good stuff and didn’t care enough to miracle up something better.

“Guess that assumes you’re impersonal, doesn’t it. Which is ridiculous. You’ve got it out for some more than others. Demons more than Angels. Lucifer more than somebody like Belial. Me more than them. Never made my Boss fall in love against his will, did You?”

He flopped back into a seat, chugging some more wine and wiping the wine from his face with his hand. Streaks of red glistened on his brown skin, which was still pretty dark from his stay in Kush. 

Crowley dropped his arm again with a groan and set the jug upright beside him. 

“It’s bloody sadistic, ’s what it is. You’re a sadist, God. Make me Fall for nothing, have Hell send me up here so I’m miserable. Then I make the most of it, so You make me fall in love. ’S twisted.” 

He probably shouldn’t be talking like this. Then again, what more could She do to him?

“It fucking hurts. I know you know that, but I’m going to say it, ’cause everybody thinks You’re so good. Well, You’re not. You put this thing in my chest. And it hurts. Every time I look at him, or, or think about him. What _good_ is ever going to come of that, eh?”

He lapsed for a moment, staring at the ceiling with unfocused eyes.

“Torturing a Demon? Not deserved, mind, so it’s not good except by rules You set up. So it’s not good. Not properly, not deep down. ’S just torture, then. 

“Or maybe this isn’t about me. Maybe it’s about him. Yeah? Hoping I tempt him into… lust? That’s a sin, I guess. So they say. Seems like a bloody useless sin. So somebody’s having a good time. Big deal. And Aziraphale wouldn’t do that. He’s good.* Unlike you.”

(* Crowley was at this point too drunk to care that he was saying things influenced by his feelings.)

“You don’t care about good and bad, do you? Not really. You drew some lines in the sand, so we can all fight over them, while You sit back. And they’re not even the _right_ lines, if You ask me. Which You wouldn’t, of course.” He sneered. “You’re just going to play tricks with my feelings and laugh from way up there.”

He took another sloppy drink of wine, a motion that should by all rights spilled it all over the place. It didn’t. 

“Hurts, love. Like a big old metaphorical knife, in my chest. An’ believe me, I know what that feels like. Literally, too. At least that goes away.”

This didn’t. It just went on, and on, and on. Twinges of pain every time something reminded him of his angel. A scribes’ shop, or someone in old-fashioned clothes. A man with a barrel chest. A woman with the same eyes. Somebody’s laugh. Crowley thought of him every time. 

“’M not even meant to be able to love, by Your rules.”

He hurt anyway, though. Every fucking time.


	337. 645 BC - Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to injury and emotional abuse (Heaven).

_645 BC. Heaven._

To the Principality Aziraphale, from the most holy Archangel Gabriel.

**Report date** : Summer. 645 years Before Christ. 

**Destination** : Jerusalem, Kingdom of Judah, Asia, Earth, Material Reality.

**Assignment (Primary)** : Guidance of human charges.

**Assignment (Additional)** : To thwart a Demonic influence in Babylon and remain there in accordance with articles 241-R to 269-C of the Divine Plan. 

**Instructions** : You must leave Jerusalem and go to the Akkadian city of Babylon. There is a foul Demon there, who must be dealt with quickly and removed from the city. 

**Notes** : The Seraph Trenmael reports you have risked the body the Quartermaster gave you for some humans. You know how much we care about you, so don’t let it happen again.

-

To the most holy Archangel Gabriel, from the Principality Aziraphale.

**Report date** : Summer. 645 years Before Christ. 

**Location** : Jerusalem, Kingdom of Judah, Asia, Earth, Material Reality.

**Assignment (Primary)** : Guidance of human charges.

**Assignment (Additional)** : Previously to guide the humans following God’s stricture toward goodness, in accordance with articles 26-A to 73-Y of the Divine Plan. Currently to thwart a Demonic influence in Babylon and remain there in accordance with articles 241-R to 269-C of the Divine Plan.

**Report** : Guidance of the human families under my care is going splendidly. They have made all the proper sacrifices, and sat shiva appropriately when their matriarch passed. No occult presences to report. Specific blessings and guidance-related activities are attached.

**Notes** : It might be beneficial to my work serving the Plan if I knew what to expect when I reach Babylon. Of course, I understand if that information isn’t deemed suitable for me, but if it is, it would be very helpful to me. 

I further apologize for my near-discorporation 667 years Before Christ. It won’t happen again, I assure you. 

**Post Script** : Babylon is under control of the Neo-Assyrian Empire these days, and though the Assyrians do speak the language known as ‘Akkadian,’ they are not themselves Akkadian. The distinction is important to many humans. 

-

To the Principality Aziraphale, from the most holy Archangel Gabriel.

**Report date** : Winter. 645 years Before Christ. 

**Destination** : Jerusalem, Kingdom of Judah, Asia, Earth, Material Reality.

**Assignment (Primary)** : See last missive. 

**Assignment (Additional)** : See last missive. 

**Instructions** : See last missive. 

**Notes** : Contact the Angel Aspariel for intelligence about the Demon. They have been incapacitated by a brush with a damned weapon for the past several decades, and may not be able to communicate. 

Glad to hear we can count on you not being discorporated, Aziraphale. I was surprised when I heard you’d got hurt—I thought you were better than that. I guess that shows me. 

I do not care about petty human distinctions. Do not send insignificant information like this again. 


	338. 644 BC - Babylon, Mesopotamia

_644 BC. Babylon, Assyrian Empire, Mesopotamia_. 

“Come on,” Crowley said. “It’ll be fun. Weather’s great today, ’s almost wrong to be working.”

The human he was tempting pursed their lips. “I don’t know…”

“Just a few minutes, then, eh? Get a little sunshine… can’t do that much har—”

Something tickled at the edge of Crowley’s consciousness, and they straightened up for the first time in a decade. 

“Are you all right, sir?”

Crowley waved off the human. “Shut up.” He glanced at the door, then back at the human, who looked offended. 

He should stay. That was the wrong thing to do, really. Stay and keep tempting. But there was an Angel in the city, and he’d be blessed if he didn’t see who it was.

Especially considering how he had a creeping suspicion that it was Aziraphale. Something about the presence just screamed familiarity. 

Not that he’d go see him. Crowley just needed to know, so he could decide to thwart him or scarper. Couldn’t give God the satisfaction of him hurting, after all. 

“... Sir?”

Crowley turned on his heel. “Something came up. I’m going. Ciao.”

“Nothing has changed since you’ve—”

He stepped outside the building and slammed the door. 

It was the truth, what he said about the weather earlier. Gorgeous blue sky, with fluffy white clouds and all—the last dregs of summer. 

He followed the presence as it grew thicker, weaving through alleys and between stalls and hovels. Staying in one place for a hundred and fifty years lent itself well to navigating. 

Crowley looked out from a half-assembled shop toward a small square just off the entrance to the city. 

Sure enough, between the swarming humans, he could see a head of white curls. 

Aziraphale’s complexion was darker than it had been in Phoenicia, the depth of shade brought out by his robes, which were in the Israelite fashion. They flattered his figure too, accenting both his plumpness from comfortable living and his robust warrior’s build. He was gesturing indignantly at a vendor, the strains of slightly outdated, Hebrew-accented Akkadian just reaching Crowley’s hearing. 

Crowley swallowed hard and ducked back around the shop to exhale slowly.

His chest was tight, like it was trying to collapse in on itself. His angel was _right there_ , and if he wanted, he could just cross the market, and say—

No, no. Couldn’t do that. 

God was fucking with him. That was the only explanation. He wasn’t meant to be able to love. And She was Aziraphale’s boss.

Crowley scrubbed his hands over his face, groaning. 

He had to go somewhere far away, or the temptation would be too great.

Funny how that worked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry. They will speak again someday.


	339. 633 BC - Nineveh, Mesopotamia

_633 BC. Nineveh, Assyrian Empire, Mesopotamia_.

Aziraphale selected a tablet from the shelf and held it to his chest while he searched for a seat. He found one quickly enough and settled into it, placing the tablet before him and peering down at it. 

It was a series of predictions for the coming centuries. Most of them were vague and worded in such a way that they might be dull or really quite dramatic depending on how one looked at it. The oddest thing, though, was the author’s apparent confidence in the longevity of the Assyrian Empire. 

After all, the government hardly seemed stable these days. He’d heard some particularly lurid stories about the last king—Esharhaddon? Something to do with his brothers murdering his father and a civil war. 

Aziraphale could pass all that off as a fluke, if it was the only thing. Unfortunately, there’d been another civil war between the king now, Ashurbanipal, and his brother, whose name began with Shamash. Aziraphale couldn’t quite recall the rest.

The point being that, while Assyrian influence was quite wide-spread for the time being—all the way to Egypt!—Aziraphale had seen enough nations fall that he felt reasonably confident in saying that the current political situation seemed precarious at best. Then again, if the author of these prophecies were truly clairvoyant, they would know better…

Aziraphale would simply have to find out. 

Opposite him, a human in masculine dress settled into a chair, a leather scroll in hand. Drat, he was looking at him.

Aziraphale nodded politely and looked down at his tablet. 

“What are you reading?” The human asked.

“Prophecies,” said Aziraphale shortly.

“Hmm. You like them?”

“I’m not sure.” He sighed heavily and lowered the tablet, putting on a meagre imitation of a smile. “I haven’t had time to become acquainted with them yet.”

“Ah. I’ll let you get to it, then.” The human lifted his own scroll with a smirk, crossed one leg over the other, and began reading. 

Thank goodness. If the human insisted on continuing to try to make conversation, Aziraphale would be compelled to go somewhere else. He’d be a bit miffed then, too—this was a particularly nice spot.

He turned the tablet to begin reading the next panel with a heavy sigh. The scribe who’d written it had awfully cramped handwriting. And their use of Akkadian seemed a bit too innovative for Aziraphale’s taste. 

Before terribly long, he’d finished the tablet, and the light through the window was dimming. It seemed awfully soon to be leaving. But then again, he had been at the library as soon as the humans let him in, so it must have been a reasonably long time, by human standards. 

Well. He’d best get on with it.

Aziraphale stood, brushed off his robes, and went to put the tablet where he’d gotten it from. Then he left the library.

Outside, the human who’d sat opposite Aziraphale was lounging against a wall. He waved casually.

Aziraphale nodded politely and continued on his way.

The human, however, seemed to take that as an invitation, because he crossed over to where Aziraphale was walking. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

“Back home,” said Aziraphale. 

“I’m Pudi-Ilu. I’ve noticed you in the library a lot the last few days.”

Aziraphale sighed. It would seem there was no dissuading him. “Aziraphale,” he said. “I have been using its facilities quite a lot.”

“Constantly. Is there something specific you’re looking for? I know the library pretty well. Maybe I could help.”

And now the human was being _nice_. That meant Aziraphale had to encourage him. Bother. 

He attempted to smile slightly more genuinely this time. “It’s very kind of you to offer, but I’m afraid I’m not looking for anything in particular.”

“Really? You’ve been in there virtually all day for almost a week.”

Oh, that. “Yes, I have, er… business to attend to back in Babylon.” He wasn’t really meant to be here, given his assignment. But he’d heard of the library and, well… surely a few days appreciating the cleverness of Gods’ favoured creations wasn’t so terrible?

“Why not just come back?” The human asked. 

“Travel expenses,” said Aziraphale dishonestly.

The human stopped walking, raised his eyebrows, looked Aziraphale up and down, then began walking again. “You don’t look like travel expenses would bother you…”

“Looks can be deceiving.” He began walking slightly faster.

“Apparently.” The human sped up too. “Are you done now, then? I mean, will you be back tomorrow?”

“I’m afr—er, that is, yes.” He couldn’t put off returning to the library, nor would he lie about it. 

“That’s great! I’ll see you then, Aziraphale.”

“Quite.”

The human broke off pursuit and allowed Aziraphale to continue in peace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had to have Aziraphale visit the Library of Ashurbanipal. However, I thought when I outlined this that it was in Babylon, so when I went to research it for this scene, I had to work out how exactly to get him to Nineveh without contradicting the last two scenes. This is why you research ahead of time, folks!


	340. 622 BC - Ugra, Mu

_622 BC. Ugra, Mu_. 

Crowley lounged on a bench in the middle of a marketplace. The locals liked putting seating lots of places, and he’d decided he liked it. It encouraged sloth, for one. And it was convenient for trying to get an ear for the language.

It was getting easier to learn languages, but he hadn’t been out this way since… maybe even a millennium before Babel. So, literal millennia ago now. 

They’d worked out writing here, which was blessed clever of them, in Crowley’s opinion, even if it looked a bit funny. Loads of slightly drunken-looking circles with pointy bits and things coming off of them. 

It made sense, probably. He’d seen some of the older, more official-looking type humans use rings that looked a bit like the writing for communication. Like letters, but they could make them out of metal and string them on a rope. 

“What are you doing?”

Crowley looked up to see a human standing over them, hands on their hips. Their straight hair was held back with a bit of embroidered cloth. 

“Er…” Crowley wasn’t so great at language yet. “I sit?”

“I can see that.” The human frowned. “Are you okay?”

“I cannot speak very well.” 

“Oh, I see. Where are you from? You don’t look—” The last word was one Crowley didn’t know. 

“Far away,” said Crowley. “Other side of an ocean.”

The human laughed. “No one comes from there.”

Ah. Shit, they didn’t know there were other people. “I have a. Good? No. Er… a special boat. Special.”

“Right. Are you—” a word Crowley didn’t catch— “in town long?”

“I think of it.” He’d spent a while wandering around, but this city seemed as good as any. Busier than a lot of the other ones. And he didn’t want to go far enough away to lose the language. “I do not—” fucking words, “—not able to have work.”

“Why not work for me?” 

Crowley frowned. “What work?”

The human said a word Crowley didn’t know and jerked a thumb toward a stall behind them, which appeared to be full of produce. “Food? Plants?”

“I can… plant.”

“You’ll do great! My last—” a word Crowley didn’t know— “got married last month.”

“Congratulations,” said Crowley.

“I’m Ukdona,” the human said. “What’s your name?”

“Crowley.”

“Cro-leh?”

Right… he hadn’t heard the ‘ee’ sound around here. “Yeah, that is good.”

“Nice.” The human grinned. “Come on—I’ll show you my plants.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Mu, as you may have known, is not a real ancient civilization—it is a fictional continent roughly between Asia and Central America. However, it existed in the Good Omens universe, and Crowley had to learn to read their writing somehow (which looks suspiciously like the M25), so… we get a brief vacation from historical accuracy!
> 
> I tried at first to base Crowley’s sentence structure on Akkadian, but it took too long, so you get the easy-to-read version with English word order. :)


	341. 614 BC - Babylon, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for alcohol use.

_614 BC. Babylon, Assyrian Empire, Mesopotamia_.

Aziraphale frowned. “A medical text, you say? I thought such things were more poets’ domain.”

“Why should it be? It has symptoms.” Pudi-Ilu sighed. “Anyway, it’s not my thing, I just copy it down.”

“Love doesn’t have _symptoms_ ,” said Aziraphale decisively, then took a sip of wine. “That’s absurd.”

Pudi-Ilu scowled. “Does too. I’ll show you. Hang on.”

Aziraphale watched Pudi-Ilu as he stood and went over to the table, where a group of tablets sat.

He hadn’t really expected to befriend Pudi-Ilu, but the fellow just kept turning up among Babylonian scribes, and it became too much work to avoid him. Besides, he was bright enough that he made a fairly good conversation partner, if one of small perspective relative to certain others.

“See, does too have symptoms.” Pudi-Ilu shoved a tablet in Aziraphale’s face.

“My dear boy, I can’t very well read it that close.” Aziraphale pushed the tablet firmly away and sat back. “Now, what exactly do you mean by symptoms?”

Pudi-Ilu took the tablet back and dropped back into his seat. “‘When the _patient_ —’” he gave Aziraphale a significant look— “‘is continually clearing their throat; is often lost of words; is always talking to themself when they are quite alone, and laughing—’”

“Really.”

Pudi-Ilu lowered the tablet to look at him. “What?”

“There are lots of reasons to talk to oneself when alone.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely oodles.”

“Name three.”

“Well, er… when one is committing something to memory. When one is working out a difficult problem. And when one is preparing a speech.” Aziraphale smiled and laced his fingers together. 

Pudi-Ilu shook his head. “The last one was the same as the first.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Well, it’s hardly a proper ‘symptom,’ is my point. Carry on, then.”

“‘And is laughing for no reason in the corners of fields, is habitually depressed, their throat tight, finds no pleasure in eating or drinking—’ That one’s like you, actually.”

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped open in affront. “I take pleasure in eating and drinking!”

“Is that why I’ve only seen you do either a dozen times in almost twenty years?”

Drat. “I’m drinking now.”

“Yeah, and it’s the twelfth time.”

He scowled and took a pointed sip of wine. It was hardly his fault he didn’t require material sustenance. 

“If they are ‘endlessly repeating, with great sighs, ‘Ah, my poor heart!’ — they are suffering from lovesickness.’”

“Now, just a moment—”

“‘For a everyone, it is all one and the same.’ Sickness, says so right here.” Pudi-Ilu pointed to the tablet.

“None of those are even proper symptoms of love,” said Aziraphale petulantly.

“So you agree they’re symptoms.”

“They are neither symptoms of illness such as would warrant inclusion in a medical text, nor are they proper indicators of love.”

“Sounds like love to me.” He turned over the tablet, examining it.

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I beg to differ.”

“On what grounds?”

“I do half those things, as you so impertinently pointed out, and I can assure you, I am certainly not ‘in love.’”

“You’re not?”

“I—” Aziraphale blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, I just assumed. Your friend, right?”

“What in the devil are you talking about? I don’t have friends. Present company excepted, of course.”

“You know, the one who left.”

Aziraphale inhaled sharply, then set his jaw. “Absolutely not. They aren’t even my friend.”

Pudi-Ilu shrugged. “Could have fooled me.”

Well, that was quite enough. Aziraphale stood briskly. “Well, thank you for a lovely evening, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten something I was meant to do.”

“What? Where are you going?”

“Somewhere I won’t be—won’t be subjected to such baseless, vile accusations.” He set his cup on the side table and turned away, exhaling slowly. 

He was really angrier than he ought to be—hot and ready for a fight. Pudi-Ilu didn’t deserve that.

Aziraphale turned back. “I’m sorry, really.” He looked down. “I simply—I suppose that particular acquaintance of mine… well, I’m rather angry with them at the moment. And being in love with them would be, well. Simply unthinkable. Impossible, really. I assure you.” He pursed his lips. “So I think I’ll be going.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I know you didn’t,” said Aziraphale gently. “But it would seem I’m not quite in a state fit for human company.”

“Fit for—what?”

“Fret not.” Aziraphale turned and went to the door. “Have a nice evening, dear boy. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tablet Pudi-Ilu is reading is based on a [real one](https://www.ancient.eu/article/688/love-sex-and-marriage-in-ancient-mesopotamia/) from the Library of Ashurbanipal. I did change a few things for gender equity’s sake. Also beware the link—it does reference some things that are Not Suitable For the Workplace, albeit in the spirit of education, and none are on the page such that one would see them before reaching the quote I borrowed.


	342. 602 BC - Ugra, Mu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to murder.

_602 BC. Ugra, Mu._

Crowley reclined at the top of a hill overlooking the city, watching the sky above them. It was bright blue at the moment, the sun bright white-gold. The warmth made some snakey part of him unfairly happy. 

“Enjoying yourself?” Ukdona asked.

“Shut up.” He stretched out farther, then closed his eyes and flipped back his veil. No sense getting weird veil tan lines.

Ukdona chuckled and lay down beside him. “It’s nice to see you happy.”

“What are you talking about? I’m happy loads.”

“Not like this.”

Crowley growled at her, but didn’t argue. 

He’d got the hand of the language finally. Still had a bit of trouble with his accent, but he could talk. And his body was starting to change to match the locals, too. His curls were getting looser as the years went by, his face looking different bit by bit. The eyes stayed the same, though, and the snake on his cheekbone. Couldn’t have him looking like a human.

There was a strange bleating noise from behind them, and Crowley sat up, jerking his head to look behind him. 

A sheep stood at the top of the hill, watching them calmly.

“What the Heaven?” Crowley pulled his veil forward. “You have, uh—the fluffy food clothing animals here?”

“Sheep,” said Ukdona contemptuously, sitting up as well. “They’re bad luck, but the people on the other side of the island keep them.”

“Sheep… are bad luck?”

“Keneh’s brother was a sheep herder.”

Keneh was the Muna’s primary deity—the first man, born from two other beings, who invented gardening. Crowley hadn’t worked out who or what the other beings were. 

Ukdona stood, glaring, then gestured. “Come on.”

He scrambled up and followed her down the hill. “Keneh had a _brother_?”

She nodded. “Ebelu.”

“You’re kidding.” Crowley ducked around a palm tree. “How come nobody told me?”

“Everyone knows about him, Croleh.”

“Not me!”

Ukdona sighed as they reached the road leading back to town. “It’s the old story. Keneh’s mother and father had two sons, Keneh and Ebelu. While Keneh began gardening, Ebelu kept sheep. Then one day, Ebelu killed a sheep that had been promised to Keneh and gave it to their parents. Keneh tried to explain the injustice, but their parents were wicked and sided with Ebelu.”

Crowley blinked. Something about the story felt off, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

“Different families have different stories about what happens next, but mine says that Ebelu attacked Keneh to stop him from telling his story, and Keneh was forced to kill him to stay alive. Then his parents and the Sun banished him, and he came to live here.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Back up. Keneh and Ebelu?”

“Yes?”

“Keneh killed Ebelu.” Crowley stopped in the middle of the road. “Unholy _shit_. The Sun’s a big being with flaming white hair, isn’t he?”

“Some people think so. I like to think he’s—are you okay?”

“I just—I think my people have a… a similar story.” Crowley swallowed hard. How the everloving fuck had Cain got all the way out here?

“Really?”

“Yeah, uh… yeah.” He swallowed hard. “Can I do something to you?”

“What?”

“Nothing bad, I swear. ’S like hypnosis. Not even sure if it will work.”

Ukdona looked deeply confused, but not scared, which was good. “I guess?”

“Brilliant. Just, er. Don’t tell me your mother’s name.”

“What?”

“Don’t tell it to me. I’m going to ask, and you can’t say it.”

“Okay...”

Crowley took a deep, steadying breath, then leaned forward, mustering Demonic persuasion. “Hello, Ukdona. What’s your mum called?”

Sure enough, Ukdona’s eyes glazed over. “Zyupa.”

Crowley recoiled, breaking the effect. “Shit.”

Ukdona shook herself. “What was that? Was I saying something?”

“Don’t worry about it.” He swallowed hard. “Really.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because of some complicated stuff to do with how I’ve decided to do worldbuilding, I needed to make sure the people of ancient Mu had beliefs traceable to the Abrahamic God/creation story. So… this is how I stay compliant with that. I’m not worrying about how Cain got to Mu or whether it fits in Biblical canon, alas.


	343. 587 BC - Babylon, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied/referenced anti-Semitism.

_587 BC. Babylon, Chaldean Empire, Mesopotamia_.

A knock sounded at the door of Aziraphale’s house, and he looked up from the text he’d been perusing. He probably ought to answer that… but the tablet he was reading was awfully interesting. Perhaps they’d go away if he didn’t indicate his presence.

They knocked again. 

Aziraphale sighed and got to his feet, then went to the door and pulled it open. “Yes?”

“Aziraphale, right?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

The human outside looked familiar… Kemuel, perhaps? He was one of the Israelites who’d come to the city in the last decade or two.

Kemuel’s shoulders slumped in apparent relief. “Thank goodness. You’re an Israelite, right?”

“Er… of sorts. Is something amiss?”

“They’ve destroyed Jerusalem.”

Aziraphale covered his mouth with one hand. “Oh, dear me. All of it? Is everyone all right?”

He nodded grimly. “All of it. The Chaldeans* are bringing the captives in now, and we need help making sure everyone has somewhere to be.”

(* The people of Babylon, now known as the Chaldeans, conquered Nineveh a few decades back. Aziraphale had been rather put out to hear the Library of Ashurbanipal burned, but watching Pudi-Ilu mourn was worse. The Chaldeans took quite a lot of Assyria along with Nineveh, then wasted no time going after smaller nations. )

“I see. Just a moment. I’ll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” He ducked inside and shut the door, eyes darting over the room. He’d likely be out for quite a while, and it wouldn’t do for him to look as though he ought to be freezing. He picked up a warmer robe and pulled it on, then went outside again. 

Kemuel was waiting for him, and gestured for him to follow.

They hurried through the streets toward the area of Babylon where the Israelites had begun settling. He could hear humans rushing about, speaking Hebrew. 

Kemuel pointed to a woman across the road. “Taphath can tell you want to do. I have to go tell the others.”

“Right.” Aziraphale watched Kemuel leave for a moment, then crossed over to wait behind another human, in front of Taphath, who was directing the others.

It only took a moment for her to finish giving instructions to the person in front of him. When Aziraphale walked up, she looked him over with a critical eye. “Who’re you?”

“My name is Aziraphale. I moved to Babylon, er, quite a while ago now, but I’d like to help in any way—”

“Good. Skills?”

“Er, I can read and write. I don’t have any training, but I have some healing ability, of sorts. And money. I can cook a bit. Oh, and I have a knack for calming the distressed.”

“You speak Akkadian?”

“Yes.”

“Over there.” She pointed to a line of people who seemed to be looking over tablets, some of them arguing. “We need a mediator with the Chaldeans.”

“Ah, very well. Thank you, madam.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spent twenty minutes working out whether Aramaic (another common language in the Neo-Babylonian/Chaldean Empire) was mutually intelligible with Hebrew.


	344. 583 BC - Ugra, Mu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for joking threat of torture.

_583 BC. Ugra, Mu_. 

Crowley checked his appearance in the bronze mirror he’d been provided with to prepare for the ceremony to become a priest. The local styles suited him well enough—long hair in braids and expressive clothing. More importantly, the priests here wore tunics dyed the darkest shade of brown Crowley’d seen humans wear yet. It was dark enough he didn’t hate wearing it.

“Croleh?”

He looked up to see one of the other acolytes, a young person named Ekdyuzo, standing in the doorway. 

“Hi.” Crowley looked back at the mirror and tweaked the fastening on his tunic. “Is it time?”

“Not yet.”

“Mmm.”

Since he worked out that the people here were part of his universe—and since Ukdona passed—he’d decided to try his hand at religion. It wasn’t half bad, really, ethically speaking. Sure, they were following Cain, which was… still surreal, but the point was they’d evolved past that.

Really went to show the whole free-will thing, didn’t it? If God and the Angels were right about how some things were inherently bad, these people would suck. But they didn’t. They were just… people.

“Are you having one of your thinking bouts again?”

Crowley looked up at Ekdyuzo and scowled. “Why’re you still here?”

The acolytes in his group had always found him an oddity. He was old-looking, after all, and had a habit of saying completely unfounded things about the gods. 

It wasn’t his fault if half their most important religious stories were things he was present for!

“Thought you might be panicking.”

Crowley scoffed. “I don’t panic.”

“Is that why your tunic’s on backwards?”

Bloody Heaven. Crowley looked down at himself, and got halfway through turning the tunic round before he registered it was fine and put it back.

Ekdyuzo was half bent over laughing in the corner.

“Oi, shut it.”

“‘I don’t panic,’” Ekdyuzo choked out. “As _if_.”

“I swear to Keneh,* if you don’t shut up, I will literally eviscerate you,” said Crowley with minimal feeling. He leaned forward to check his reflection again. “D’you have some of that wax stuff?”

(* After some consideration, Crowley decided that swearing to the first murderer was a suitably Demonic activity, particularly when it helped him ingratiate himself with susceptible humans.)

Ekdyuzo held out a wood pot of oily red wax, which Crowley put on his mouth. It wasn’t comfortable per se, but it was the local style. And it didn’t hurt that the red happened to be the same color as his underbelly as a serpent, which was frankly hilarious.

“Thanks.” Crowley passed it back. “You ready, then?”

“Yeah.” Ekdyuzo smiled. “My mum’s going to be so proud.”

“I’m sure. Her child’s a priest and all.” He paused. “What about Granu and Chanora?”

“Both ready.”

“Right.” Crowley got up from his seat and turned to look at them. “What d’you think? Decent priest-to-be.”

“The eyes are a bit funny looking,” said Ekdyuzo mildly.

Crowley scowled at them. “Very funny.”

He’d had to show his eyes at the beginning of the acolyte process, but the people of Mu had been unusually accepting of it. Probably had something to do with the favorable depiction of him in their religion, come to think of it…

Ekdyuzo shrugged. “What should I say? You look great. In a sticklike sort of way.”

“Right.” Crowley stalked past them. “Let’s do this.”


	345. 568 BC - Babylon, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for inadvertent deadnaming.

_568 BC. Babylon, Chaldean Empire, Mesopotamia_.

Aziraphale leaned out the window, watching the sun set over the top of the rooves. He finished his blessings for the day, but hadn’t done so in time to reach Kemuel’s house for the lighting of the Shabbat candles. 

It was all right, though. He had been spending Shabbat with a variety of human families for weeks now, and it was nice to do it at home again. His own candles sat on the table, flickering.

From his window, Aziraphale could see the lights from the other houses seem to grow brighter as daylight faded. He could hear singing in Hebrew through the open windows, drifting down the street. Someone in the house next door laughed. 

He pulled his robe tighter about him, sighing deeply, and leaned into the window frame. 

The Chaldeans were building a garden now. It was meant to be quite lovely when it was finished. Every few weeks, he passed processions of saplings, sprouts, and seeds being brought in to furnish it. A fig tree had gone by that morning. 

He couldn’t help but think of Crawly, then. It had been nearly five hundred years now, since they left him. He hoped they were well, wherever they were.

Their departure still nagged him, from time to time. Had they been frightened of something? Ordered away by Hell? Discovered by humans? 

Perhaps they’d just tired of him. They had known one another for well over three thousand years. It would be entirely reasonable, particularly when one took into account certain obvious conflicts between them. 

Once, back when he arrived in Babylon from Jerusalem, nearly eighty years ago now, he’d thought he sensed them. He’d been just about to go out and find them when the presence abated, and he’d found himself alone again.

Of course, there was a chance it hadn’t been Crawly at all, but some other Demon… but some part of Aziraphale knew that wasn’t the case. He knew Crawly.

Aziraphale looked up at the stars they had built, exhaling carefully. He really oughtn’t feel this way about a Demon. He shouldn’t even tolerate them. 

It wasn’t as though they could feel kindly toward him. Demons didn’t _do_ kind, as they so frequently felt the need to remind him. 

As if he didn’t remember every time they took off that veil, and his throat closed up in instinctive fear. 

In a house across the street, he could see the shadows of two humans, arms around one another, lit by candlelight. He could feel their love from here, if he opened himself up to it. 

He didn’t reach out to feel love very often, these days. It could be overwhelming, in a city as large as Babylon. And it seemed like a slightly self-indulgent use of his Angelic abilities, so. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He’s talking about the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, which may or may not have been built during the reign of Nebuchadnezzar II.


	346. 556 BC - Ugra, Mu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for use of alcohol as a coping mechanism, reference to illness (nausea), and depression.

_556 BC. Ugra, Mu_. 

Ekdyuzo squinted at Crowley from the other side of the table where they’d been sitting and drinking for the better part of three hours. “You ever been in love before?”

Crowley blinked at them once, then knocked back the rest of his drink. “Yeah.” 

“Didn’t work out?”

He huffed out a laugh. It was the painful sort of laugh he only ever managed when he was horribly drunk and thinking about Aziraphale. “Could say that.”

“Hmm. Who was it?”

He glared at them. “What’s it to you?” 

“Just. Been thinking about it lately, y’know?” They rolled their cup around on its base, head propped against one hand. “Love.”

“Load of bollocks if you ask me.” Crowley tried to pour himself more, and found the bottle empty. The last drop landed on the table. 

“Bad luck?”

“The worst.” He sat back again and pulled one foot onto his seat, wrapping his arms around his knee. “’S gone now.”

“Your love?”

“The bottle.”

“Oh.” Ekdyuzo looked at the bottle, expression morose, then sighed. “I guess I should go, then, shouldn’t I.”

“Probably.” Crowley lurched up and helped walk them to the door. “I’ll see you at the temple tomorrow?”

“Mmm.” Ekdyuzo paused outside the door, scrubbing a hand over their stubbly jaw. “That’s going to be too damn early.”

“Yeah.” Crowley sniffed, then opened the door. “See you, then.”

“You too.” Ekdyuzo stumbled out. “G’luck with your friend.”

Crowley grunted, and waited until Ekdyuzo was far enough away, then shut the door and leaned against it before sliding down to the ground.

“’S not fair,” he muttered. 

It wasn’t, really. But he’d been saying as much for decades now. Centuries, maybe. 

“What d’You even want, then?” He tipped his head back to look at the thatched ceiling above him. “You’ve got to want _something_. I’m in pain. Is that it? Sadist.”

He lowered his gaze again, skipping over the furnishings of his house. “Then again, if You really wanted to hurt me, you’d make me stay with him. Not that I’m saying that’s a good idea, mind.” 

Wasn’t any point not saying it out loud. That was the big problem with an omniscient God. You could get in trouble for things that crossed your mind, even if you didn’t mean them. 

“D’you want me to do something? ’S that it? Haven’t been a bad enough Demon?”

He definitely hadn’t been the worst Demon. Not in the Demonic sense, anyway. Better than he’d’ve been able to manage in Hell, so he was probably the worst Demon of them all. Best Demon, really.

“How about that?” He looked back up. “I’ll be a proper Demon, and you get rid of this—” He pressed a flat hand to the vulnerable part of his chest, right where his ribs ended. It ached. “What you’ve done to me. Please.”

There was no response. There never was. Not since that time he hadn’t expected it, and he got the response to end all of them. 

Crowley looked down, rolling his eyes. “Guess that’s what faith’s for.”

Not a great start to his stint as a proper Demon, faith. There wasn’t any other way, though. He’d give it a try, and if the feelings went away… well. He’d be doing Demon stuff, and that thought made him nauseous, but it would be better than this. 

God, he missed Aziraphale—but with any luck, that’d all be over soon. Just had to be a Demon. 

How hard could it be?


	347. 551 BC - Babylon, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to the Flood.

_551 BC. Babylon, Chaldean Empire, Mesopotamia_.

Aziraphale brought a dish of lentils and set it on the table in front of Jephunneh, a scholar with whom he had been talking of late. “There we are. I’m afraid my, er, culinary talents are a bit dusty these days.” It was a recipe he’d learned—gracious—around 3,000? 

Jephunneh accepted the dish. “Thank you. I’m sure it’s better than what I could muster.”

“Perhaps. You don’t cook often?”

“Only for feasts.”

“Ah, I see.” Aziraphale sat down across from Jephunneh and began looking through the stack of tablets on the table.

Jephunneh was part of a group of Israelites who’d begun consolidating the stories which all the families in Babylon had passed down. Someone had decided that it might behoove them to have a record of the traditions, in case something dreadful happened.

The tablet Aziraphale selected was a transcription of a particular family’s account of the Flood, which was… interesting, if nothing else. Shem was portrayed as a nefarious yet irritating boy who attempted to spirit away some of the animals on a rowboat, which was patently untrue. And there was no mention of Na-eltama-uk whatsoever!

“What is this?” Jephunneh asked.

Aziraphale looked up and saw him pointing to the dish of lentils. “Oh, er. Just an old family recipe.”

“I haven’t had anything like it.” 

Drat. He’d hoped that it would be similar enough to modern food that it would go without remark. “Very old.”

Jephunneh frowned skeptically, but continued eating.

Aziraphale looked back down at the Flood story. Beyond some difficulties with keeping the family members distinct, there didn’t seem to be any other significant— “Oh, dear me.”

“Is it that different from your family’s version?” Jephunneh asked.

Sometimes, pretending to be human was frightfully difficult. 

Aziraphale attempted to wrangle his no doubt pained expression into something resembling a friendly smile. “Quite different. What’s this about a snake?”

“Yeah, that was one of the reasons I decided to preserve this story.” Jephunneh finished the lentils and sat back, looking thoughtful. “Most of the stories have roughly the same elements, but this family has an ancestor of Sumerian descent who had their own version of it.”

“Is that so?” Aziraphale hadn’t been privy to any particular retellings of the story. Then again, it had seemed quite silly to pay attention to what people thought had happened during an event for which he had been present.

Jephunneh nodded. “Supposedly, the Sumerian heard stories from one of Japheth’s children about a small black snake on the Ark that was the only one of its kind.”

“How… sad.”

“Mmm.” Jephunneh leaned forward again and pulled out a new tablet. “We’ll have to discuss it with the rest of the congregation, but I doubt it will be in the finished Torah, since there’s no one else corroborating it.”


	348. 538 BC - Babylon, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to the Flood.

_538 BC. Babylon, Achaemenid Empire, Mesopotamia._

Aziraphale looked around his house. It was odd, going back to Judah after so little time. Granted, it had been over a hundred years, but he’d grown used to spending rather longer than that in one location before moving on. 

He gathered his tablets in a bag, wrapping each one in fabric, which wasn’t normal practice, but gave him some comfort, considering he had tablets over a thousand years old. 

The last one was a particular account of the Flood. Aziraphale had asked to keep it when the humans finished compiling a more standard account of Creation. He was trying not to think about _why_ he was keeping it.

With the tablets settled inside, he fastened the bag and hefted it with one hand. He’d have to remember to act more burdened by it when he stepped outside.

Someone knocked at the door and he cast one last glance over his empty house, then went to open it. 

A young human in feminine clothing stood outside, a donkey with a pack behind them. “Oh, hello,” she said in Hebrew. “You’re coming with us to Jerusalem?”

“Yes.” He stepped outside and shut the door, then turned to face her. “I take it you are as well?”

The human nodded. “We’re leaving soon.”

“I see.” Aziraphale paused. “Er, I’m terribly sorry, but I can’t quite recall your name?”

“Mahalath,” she said. “And you’re Aziraphale, right?”

“I should hope so.” He frowned. “How do you, er—know my name?”

“Everyone does.” Her eyes flicked up to his hair. “We’ll meet at the gate soon.”

“I shall be there.” He smiled kindly, then went past her.

It was a strange thing. Some of the Israelites had chosen not to return to Judah straightaway. He understood, really. To a degree, at any rate. They’d spent a long time here, for someone with a human lifespan. He couldn’t expect them to abandon that for a land they’d never know.

And then there was _why_ they were returning. He’d seen War when the Achaemenids took Babylon. She had looked quite gleeful. 

Still, he took some small comfort in the knowledge that this was all part of the Plan. The Israelites couldn’t stay in Babylon forever, so it followed that something had to happen to keep the Chaldeans from continuing to hold them captive. 

He just wished it didn’t have to be so unpleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I messed up and didn't post this when I ought to have, but here it is now.


	349. 527 BC - Ugra, Mu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for referenced adultery, implied/referenced torture threats, and threats of violence.

_527 BC. Ugra, Mu_. 

Crowley shifted in his seat, watching his temptee, Ordpalu, pace the length of the room. There was something heavy and uncomfortable in the pit of his stomach, like there always was these days when he was tempting.

“—And then, Jehnoda has the nerve to say she was at Thyuzu’s house. She said that to my face.” Ordpalu turned on his heel and began walking the other way. “It’s like she doesn’t think I know!”

“I mean, she probably doesn’t.” Crowley crossed his arms. “’S not the sort of thing you reference casually.”

“What do I do about it, though? Did I do something wrong?”

Adultery was so boring. Crowley’d been sitting with Ordpalu for almost an hour, trying to goad him into wrath, but it wasn’t going just yet. He was almost getting to the point of invoking a little occult persuasion, in the spirit of being a proper Demon, but wasn’t quite at that point yet.

And now he had to respond, didn’t he? Something inciting. “Of course you didn’t do something wrong,” said Crowley with as much feeling as he could manage with the knowledge that Ordpalu had definitely done things wrong. “Not enough to deserve this, anyway.”

“I know!” Ordpalu threw his arms up in apparent disgust, then turned to pace the other way. “I don’t deserve this. And she’s going around bedding someone else, anyway.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Should I _do_ anything? Shouldn’t I just talk to her?”

“Ehh… somehow I don’t think that’d do much good.”

“You’re probably right. What, though?”

Crowley resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “What d’you want to do?”

Ordpalu froze in the centre of the room and turned slowly to face Crowley, expression intense. “I _want_ to make Jenohda and Thyuzu pay for what they’ve done to me. I want to make them suffer.”

Shit. Crowley’s stomach clenched, but he kept his expression in check. “It’d serve them right,” he said, voice carefully steady.

Thank Satan for 3,500 years of practice lying.

“It would.” Ordpalu straightened up. “Fuck it, I’m going to do it.” He strode past Crowley to pick up his mantle and swung it around his shoulders. 

Crowley turned and watched him as he opened the door to Crowley’s house and slammed it behind him. 

With Ordpalu gone, Crowley gave a long, hissing exhale and flopped back. It was getting easier, slowly. Very slowly. He’d be thinking about Jehnoda and Thyuzu for the rest of the night, if not the week.

He had to trust it’d pay off. What were a few humans in exchange for fixing his Aziraphale problem?

Well. 

He knew what they were; he was just trying not to think about it.


	350. 516 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to work out what Aziraphale’s equivalent to Crowley’s lovelorn monologues was, only to come to the (in retrospect obvious) conclusion that it was writing.

_516 BC. Jerusalem, Achaemenid Empire, Canaan._

My dear,

I hope you’ll forgive my impertinence in writing a letter which I have no intention of delivering. I must confess, even as I write these words, I’m quite frightened of what would happen if someone came upon it. Even so, I believe this is what I must do if I’m to properly move on with my life.

You see, I’m quite fond of you, even though you have been absent from me for five hundred years. I realize that’s likely difficult to believe, considering the circumstances, but I assure you I mean it most earnestly. I feel friendship for you. I think you can see now why I could never deliver this letter—though I don’t fault you for it, I realize how unlikely it would be for a Demon to feel such things. Particularly for someone like me.

I shall have to burn this once it’s written. 

Quite a lot has happened since you left. I’ve been living with the Israelites for most of that time, with the exception of a few decades in Babylon before they arrived. Were you there when I arrived? Was the prospect of my company so displeasing as to compel you to leave without greeting me?

I’ve recently returned with them from Babylon. The humans adjusted quickly; it’s lovely to see. It is different, though, from how it was before. The city was completely destroyed by the Chaldeans while we were gone, and being absent from the Temple and their lands changed many things. 

Speaking of, the Temple has been rebuilt. I suppose you weren’t there when Shlomoh’s Temple was still standing. It was beautiful. ~~I wish you could have seen it.~~ But it was destroyed by the Chaldeans along with the rest of the city. Now we’ve returned, they built another. I must say, I’m not terribly fond of it just yet, but I’m sure I’ll get used to it. The humans, of course, have no such difficulty, since none of them properly remember Shlomoh’s Temple. 

I shall stop troubling you now. I hope that, wherever you are, you are happy. 

Warmest regards,

Aziraphale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... didn't post this at the right time. Whoops. Here it is now, though!


	351. 510 BC - Ugra, Mu

_510 BC. Ugra, Mu_. 

Crowley leaned over an acolyte’s shoulder, looking over their sigils. “You missed a letter.”

“Shit.”

“Don’t think the High Priest would appreciate that kind of language, kid.”

“Sorry.”

Crowley hissed and moved to the next one’s writing. Then he frowned and leaned in closer. 

“Hey, what are you doing?” The kid leaned away, covering their tablet with one hand. 

“My job,” Crowley said. “And that’s really not what you’re s’posed to be writing.”

The acolyte’s eyes widened. “It’s a joke.”

“You’re a terrible liar. Give it here.”

They handed it over. 

It was a story, of sorts. Seemed to be about… “Hang on, what’s this about a snake?”

“In the Garden,” the kid said, reaching for the tablet. “It’s not standard, I know. I’ll take it out.”

“No, hang on.” Crowley held it away, at arms’ length. Some of the other acolytes looked up at him, and he glared at them before pulling the tablet back in to read. He frowned at it. “The snake isn’t Satan!”

At the front of the room, the lead priest shushed him. 

Crowley nearly stuck his tongue out at her, but thought the better of it.

The acolyte blinked at him.

He tucked it into his chest, then motioned for the acolyte to follow. 

They stepped out into the hall and Crowley shut the door behind them, then rounded on the acolyte. “The snake is _not_ Satan.”

“You believe there was a snake there?”

Crowley opened his mouth, looked down at himself, looked back at the kid, then shut it. “Er. Yeah. Why?”

The acolyte grinned. “That’s so cool! I didn’t realize there were priests who thought so. My Nan said he’s Satan, though.”

“He’s definitely not Satan.” Crowley sighed, skimming the rest of the account. “And yeah, kind of have to keep the snake bits of the story under wraps in the temple.” He handed it back. “’S not half bad, that. I know someone who’d be… bless it.”

The acolyte took the tablet back, frowning. “What?”

“Nothing. Just… made a deal and I just realized—sorry.” He was being nice, bless it all, and now he was thinking of Aziraphale. Fuck.

Right, so all he had to do was reverse it. 

He grabbed the tablet back from the kid. “Actually, never mind. I’m confiscating this.”

“What?”

“And reporting you for—for blasphemy.”

The kid’s eyes went wide. “No, please, don’t—”

“Did you not hear me?” Crowley swallowed. “Get out.”

Their lip trembled. “I—please, I thought—”

“Get out!”  
They clenched their jaw. “Fine.” 

Crowley watched the kid walk away, still holding the tablet to his chest. 

A sniff echoed down the hall, and a door shut behind them. 

“There,” Crowley muttered, with a glance to the sky. “See? Bad Demon, me.”

Though a properly bad Demon probably wouldn’t feel this bad about it.


	352. 501 BC - Byunu, Mu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence.

_501 BC. Byunu, Mu_. 

Crowley crossed his arms and tried not to fiddle with the shells woven into his formal vestments. Someone had decided that that needed a delegation of priests at the yearly trade delegation to the Byuneh people, from the other side of Mu. If he ever worked out who that someone was, he’d have words with them. 

Unfortunately, considering this had been going on as long as Crowley had been in Ugra, there was a decent chance they were dead… though that might not stop him having words with them, if he wanted to put in the work poking through Hell for a particular human. Which he didn’t.

To be fair, it was only the second time he’d been selected for the job, but that didn’t make it any less boring. He’d been standing in his place against the wall for the better part of two hours, being side-eyed by the priests from the other delegation. 

His feet were getting sore.

The Ugran leader pointed to something on the map. “Our farmers in this area have been having some difficulties with your sheep in their fields. If—”

The door opened and a woman entered, dressed in diplomat’s clothing dyed red. The humans went silent, and she surveyed the gathering with a smirk. 

Crowley’s stomach clenched. That was… not good. In fact, it was really fantastically bad. 

War’s eyes alighted on Crowley, and she grinned. “Long time no see.”

The humans all turned to shift their focus to him, more than a few of them glaring. 

He swallowed. “Yeah. What’re you doing here?”

“What do you think?” She giggled, moving one hand to her hip where an empty scabbard hung. “ _Crawly_ , was it?” Her inflection on his name smacked of an accent that definitely wasn’t from Mu. Akkadian, maybe? 

“Crowley. Or Croleh, here.” Under different circumstances, he might try to convince her to go out for a drink someplace away from the heads of state… but he was a proper Demon now, so that wasn’t on the table. 

War looked over the humans, who were watching their exchange intently. 

One of the Ugran guards was rubbing a thumb over her knife. Crowley knew her—Ockzema. They’d played pranks on some of the more uptight members of the Ugran delegation on the way over. Now, though, she looked positively murderous.

The Ugran leader cleared his throat, apparently with some difficulty. “The. The sheep.”

“What about them?” The Byuneh queen tore her eyes away from War and looked at the map. “Our farmers can’t control when they escape.”

“Oh, I think they can,” said the Ugran leader. “Or maybe, if you can’t, you should think about getting rid of them, cursed animals that they are!”

“Our sheep are our _livelihood_ ,” the Queen said. “It’s not our fault you’re superstitious.”

“How dare you.” The Ugran leader pulled away from the table, a hand on his knife. “Heretics!”

The Queen’s guards stepped forward, their own knives drawn, and she threw up her hands in disgust. “You and your ideas about this ‘Kenan.’ What kind of tradition abhors sheep? It’s absurd!” She narrowed her eyes. “Maybe it’s time we took back Mu for the Byuneh, once and for all.”

The Ugran leader launched himself at the Queen’s guards, and Crowley looked away just in time to duck a blow from Ockzema. 

“She’s mine!” Ockzema shouted, and came back with another swipe of her knife.

Crowley ducked again, then transformed into a serpent and slithered out the door. He could hear War laughing behind him, as the sounds of fighting continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a bit since I answered comments. Rest assured I still very much appreciate them and will answer in time; I am just a bit busy at the moment.
> 
> Edited 4 February 2021 for a typo.


	353. 486 BC - Susa, Iran

_486 BC. Susa, Achaemenid Empire, Iran._

Aziraphale entered a marketplace and stopped, taking in his surroundings. It was strange—he’d come to Susa once before, but he hardly recognized it now. The monuments that had been new when he was here last were in ruins now. Granted, that was likely due in large part to the nearly three thousand years that had passed in the interim, but the point stood. 

He adjusted his hold on the bag of tablets and other writings he had slung over his shoulder and continued through the market. 

It was a shame, really—he’d been just beginning to settle into living in Jerusalem again when he’d received a scroll from Heaven saying he was needed in Elam. Of course, this wasn’t Elam anymore, but he could hardly expect Gabriel to know that when he had far more important things to think about.

He paused in front of many of the stalls, appraising their wares. While he studied a butcher, someone tapped his shoulder, and he turned to see a woman in Israelite clothing. 

“Yes?”

“There’s a _shochet_ on the next street, if you’re looking for kosher meat.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale smiled. “Thank you very much. I’ll have to take a peep later on. I’m afraid I’m just getting my bearings for the moment.” He moved away from the butcher’s stall and faced her properly.

“New in town?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve just come down from Jerusalem.”

She raised her eyebrows. “That’s a long way.”

“I suppose so. I’m afraid I’ve had to travel quite a lot in my day.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. I felt I’d only just come back from Babylon when I had to leave Jerusalem.” 

She made a sympathetic expression. “That must be difficult.”

“I’m rather used to it.” He adjusted his grip on his bag of writings, then frowned. “Pardon me, but am I keeping you?”

She shook her head. “Not at all—it’s nice to see more Jewish people coming to the city. My grandfather will be excited to hear a new opinion on theology.”

“Goodness. I hardly think my opinion would count as new.”

She laughed. “My grandfather hasn’t had the benefit of real variety in debating partners for fifty years.”

“I can see how that would render one a bit desperate,” Aziraphale said. Hopefully, the poor fellow wouldn’t recognize him if they’d been in Babylon together…

“I’m Dinah, by the way.”

“Aziraphale,” he said. 

“Nice to meet you, Aziraphale.”

“Quite.” He shifted his grip on his bag again. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I have things to be getting to.”

She nodded. “Me, too. I’ll see you around!”

He waved and set off into the market. 


	354. 479 BC - Ugra, Mu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for blood, illness (nausea), reference to murder, panic attack, depression, and themes of self-harm/suicide.
> 
> This is probably one of the darkest moments so far if not in the story as a whole, and is bordering on what I’d personally consider ‘M’ territory in terms of theme. I have so far elected not to up the rating because it’s still borderline and the story as a whole isn’t generally this dark. Still, because of how dark it is, I’ve put a scene summary in the end notes for anyone who needs to skip.

_479 BC. Ugra, Mu_. 

Crowley sank onto a bench, limbs trembling, and closed his eyes. He felt terrible. 

Another priest, a man named Chrenu, came out of the room. “Hanging in there, Croleh?”

Crowley inhaled to talk, but gagged and had to swallow hard before he spoke. “Yeah. Just. Give me a minute.”

“Suit yourself.” Chrenu wiped a hand on the dark fabric of his vestments and leaned back against the wall, apparently at ease.

It wasn’t that big a deal. Not really. Satan knew other Demons did it all the time. And technically, he had done, too. Theseus and all. But… he hadn’t done it this way before. 

There was still blood on his hands. 

Crowley staggered to his feet. “’S there water anywhere? I need. I got. I have to wash up.”

Chrenu raised an eyebrow at him. “We’re stuck in here until they’re sure there aren’t any more, remember?”

Right. The man was a Byuneh spy. Or so the other priests said. There was an insistent feeling at the back of Crowley’s skull that they weren’t really telling the truth there, but. He didn’t think he could handle it if he knew otherwise. 

“Just wipe it on your robes. Shouldn’t be a problem if no one looks too closely, and you can wash it out.”

Crowley looked down at his clothes. Chrenu was probably right. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“If you don’t, it’ll dry on your hands.”

A squeaking noise rose in the back of Crowley’s throat before he could stop it. 

Chrenu looked at him properly, brow wrinkled in concern. “Croleh?”

“’M. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” Chrenu crossed the room and motioned like he was going to guide Crowley to sit again. 

He hissed at him. “I’m _fine_.”

Chrenu held up his hands. “Woah, okay, chill out.” He paused. “Sorry, I thought you’d be able to cope with it.”

“I’m coping,” Crowley spat. “I’m fucking coping, like a good little Dem—priest, okay?” He took a step away and wiped his hands decisively on his robes, then folded his arms across his chest, and scowled at the ceiling.

Chrenu nodded, and lowered himself to the ground. “It can take some time to adjust.”

“To killing people? I’d never have guesssed.”

“If you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

Crowley scowled, but sat down on the bench again. 

In the silence, he could hear people moving around outside. He and Chrenu had brought the spy in here, since it was the best-armoured part of the temple, while the other priests and acolytes searched for more intruders. But… the spy had resisted, and one thing led to another, and now there was blood on his hands and a body in the other chamber.

“It’s a strange feeling,” Chrenu said. 

“Hmm?”

“Killing. It’s… indescribable. Ineffable, you know?”

Crowley froze. 

“Croleh?”

Satan, he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe, or see, and those were tears in his eyes, and, God, he could see Aziraphale’s face, and—

“Croleh!”

He looked up at him, eyes wide. “I can’t,” he said. 

“What are you talking about?”

“I can’t do it.” He swallowed hard. “I can’t be good enough for Her. Or bad enough. It’s never enough.”

“For—”

“He’s still there,” Crowley said. And he was, too, haunting him every day, clawing at his insides, smiling sometimes, and that hurt the most. White hair and a brilliant smile and those dark eyes that got soft sometimes and made Crowley do things he’d never do in a thousand years otherwise. “I hate it.”

Chrenu watched him, eyes worried. 

And it made sense. Crowley probably wasn’t making any sense. But it didn’t matter, because this wasn’t working. He’d been trying to be a proper Demon this whole time so he’d stop—stop— _loving_ , but it wasn’t working, because God wasn’t listening.

“She’s never listening,” Crowley said, and laughed.

“Who isn’t?”

He stood. “It doesn’t matter. She’s never bloody listening. Which means I just did all of that, for no purpose. No point! I was just being bad for the hell of it, and it didn’t matter, because She wasn’t listening! I’m still in love with him!”

He grinned, though it felt manic even as he did it. “I’m out. See you. Or, actually, I won’t see you. Because I’m leaving. Because nothing fucking matters. Ever. Nothing. Not one little bit, because God doesn’t care about any of us.”

“What?”

Crowley strode to the outside door and gave him a mock salute. “Ciao. Have fun rotting in Hell for murdering an innocent man.”

“Wait, you can’t go out there. They’re still—”

Crowley pulled the door open, and looked out. “Would you look at that? It opened. I can go out there.”

“Croleh, they’ll—”

“I don’t care,” he said, then stepped out and shut the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley, caught up in the war between the different nations of Mu, kills a human. Another human uses the word ‘ineffable’ while trying to comfort him. Crowley then realizes that he is still in love with Aziraphale, which means that his attempts to bargain with God by being a proper Demon aren’t working. As a result, Crowley decides to quit his post and leave Mu.


	355. 473 BC - Susa, Iran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of past attempted genocide and anti-Semitism. 
> 
> This one has considerable outside context, so I’ve included a brief summary of events below for those who don”t know the story of Purim.

_473 BC. Susa, Achaemenid Empire, Iran_.

Aziraphale hurried down the street toward Dinah’s house, picking his way around debris from the fighting these past two days. It had been a horribly unpleasant business, and he was glad to see the end of it. 

He just hoped Dinah’s family would see the end of it, too.

One of the neighbours was outside when he passed—Ebed, if he remembered correctly.

Ebed straightened up as he passed. “Aziraphale! You’re alive.”

He stopped. “Yes, indeed. Is your family—?”

“They’re safe.” Ebed gave a little smile. “People are saying it’s a miracle.”

“I certainly hope so. I like to think that He’s looking out for us.”

“Mmm.” Ebed tucked a scroll under his arm. “You’re going to visit Tola and Dinah?”

“Yes. I was a bit… caught up, during the fighting.”

The family that lived next door to him hadn’t been particularly well defended, so, seeing as he knew how to use a sword, he’d taken it upon himself to make certain no misfortune befell them. The Plan also seemed rather in favor of it, which was comforting.

“I didn’t realize you were a fighter,” Ebed said.

“I’m not.” He frowned. “Pardon me, but what’s the scroll there?”

Ebed scowled. “Haman’s edict.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale swallowed. He’d really thought that was the end of it. They couldn’t very well carry on with the Plan without any humans following God. “Might I… might I have a copy?”

Ebed frowned and held out the scroll gingerly. “I was going to burn them.”

“I think,” said Aziraphale, taking it carefully and tucking it into his robes, “I can make sure it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

“If we can trust anyone to keep writing away from people, it’s you,” said a voice from behind him.

Aziraphale turned to see Dinah standing in the doorway of her house, and smiled, his shoulders relaxing. “Oh, thank goodness.”

She smiled tiredly. “We were worried about you.”

He spread his hands. “I’m afraid I was needed elsewhere.”

“I’ll let you catch up.” Ebed waved and moved away to keep picking up debris. 

“Have a lovely day,” Aziraphale called after him. Then he turned to look at Dinah. “Is your family all, er… present and accounted for?”

“Yes.” She stepped aside. “Come in? We’re preparing parcels of food to give to our friends.”

“What a splendid idea.” He followed her into the house, which did indeed smell like cooking. 

One of her small children ran up and threw his arms around him. “Uncle Aziraphale!”

“Ah, Jaasu.” He patted the boy on the head. “How are you?”

Jaasu pulled back to look at him. “Mum was worried you wouldn’t come back,” he said soberly.

“I’m afraid that was a concern,” said Aziraphale. 

Jaasu nodded, looking down at the ground. “I was gonna miss you.”

“I would have missed you, too.” He patted him on the head again, then looked to Dinah. “Where is Tola?”

“Checking on our friends.” She entered the kitchen. “And trying to find out what happened.”

Aziraphale followed her. “It was quite the quick about-face, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it something to do with Queen Esther?”

“That’s what they’re saying.” Dinah paused at the hearth, turning back to look past Aziraphale, where Jaasu had already run off to some other part of the house. “Obil says Haman’s been executed.”

“How terrible,” said Aziraphale cheerfully.

Dinah scoffed. “Good riddance.”

“He was rather too murderous for my taste. And his taste in hats was simply frightful.” He looked over the assembled ingredients. “Now, how might I help?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is based on the story of Purim, from the Scroll of Esther. It’s quite long, but short version is that a man named Haman, a high official in the court of Xerxes I/Ahasuerus of the Achaemenid empire, got the king to order the murder of all Jewish people. Xerxes/Ahasuerus, however, was married to one Queen Esther, who at a pivotal moment revealed that she was Jewish. 
> 
> Xerxes/Ahasuerus, unable to repeal the edict commanding the murder of all Jewish people, let Esther and her relative, Mordechai, write an edict. The new edict said that Jewish people under attack were allowed to kill those who might kill them. (He also ordered Haman’s execution.) There was then fighting for either one or two days, the latter being the case in Susa, at the end of which the Jewish people were safe. They then exchanged food and decided to commemorate their deliverance with a holiday, being Purim. 
> 
> There are a lot more details, but that’s the stuff that comes up in here!


	356. 455 BC - Uz, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for depression (apathetic) and reference to prostitution.

_455 BC. Uz, Achaemenid Empire, Mesopotamia_. 

Crowley kicked the wall of a sheep pen, and watched as the stones clattered into the grass. She’d been working on destabilizing it all morning. It would probably get someone pissed off, too, later. If she stuck around to see.

“Hey!” 

She turned to see a group of humans in masculine clothing, surrounded by a herd of sheep they were bringing into the pen. 

One of the humans crossed the field to her. “What was that for?” He spoke Aramaic, but his accent was Hebrew.* 

(* Crowley had got to learn Aramaic when she arrived back from Mu. Languages were getting easier, though, and Aramaic wasn’t too far off from Phoenician. Or Hebrew, really, when she got down to it. Hebrew was just Phoenician, but a bit left. Or something. Point was, it hadn’t taken long, and a lot of the languages seemed to be a bit like Akkadian or Egyptian anyway, so it didn’t really matter. Though she did keep starting writing with a circle like in Mu, which wasn’t ideal…)

“Just wreaking havoc.” She shrugged. “Thought it’d be funny if all your sheep escaped.”

The human blinked.

Sometimes telling the truth got the best reaction. She smirked. 

“Are you looking for work?” He asked finally.

“Me? Nah.” She sniffed, watching the sheep behind him as they spilled out into the pasture. Strange, seeing sheep treated as normal again. “Why?”

He motioned to her veil.

Crowley groaned. That was the worst thing about being back. “I’m not a prostitute, if that’s what you’re thinking. The sun hurts my eyes.”

“Right.” He still looked confused.

“Look, I can rebuild the bloody wall if that’s what you’re on about. I’m just bored. And nothing matters anyway, so why not.”

“What do you mean?”

She glared at the sky for a minute before looking back at him. “Y’know. God doesn’t care about any of us.”

His eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”

“Blast, you believe in God?” It figured, really, now she was looking at his clothes—he was dressed in Israelite fashions. But honestly, it was too much bloody work figuring out where everyone was from with the Achaemenids standardizing everything.

“I’m Jewish, if that’s what you mean.”

Crowley raised her eyebrows. “Huh. Congratulations, I guess. Don’t mean to mess with your religious stuff. I’m just… why am I even telling you?”

“I don’t know.”

Crowley snorted. “Yeah, okay. I don’t either. Where’s the nearest place somebody can get decent wine?”

“You could ask Job.”

“Kind of name’s that?”

“He’s my employer.” The human pointed away, beyond the pasture. “People say he’s friendly to travelers.”

“Brilliant.” She pulled her skirts up and swung one leg over the wall, then the other. “See you. Or, probably not, really, but it doesn’t matter.”

She could practically hear the human’s confused stare behind her. 


	357. 453 BC - Susa, Iran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for alcohol use.
> 
> Also, uh... I messed up. Apparently, I failed to post two chapters at the correct times? So, chapters 348 (538 BC) and 350 (516 BC) are up now! Sorry about that. :)

_453 BC. Susa, Achaemenid Empire, Iran._

“And what did your mother think of Miryam?” Dinah asked.

“She was terribly bright, you know. Which I suppose made sense, considering she was a prophetess and all. Or, er, so my mother—” Aziraphale froze, mouth dry.

There was something else in the city. Or rather, someone else. An occult being.

“Aziraphale?” Dinah leaned forward, touching a hand to his knee.

He looked up at her again and blinked. “I’m terribly sorry; I seem to have lost the thread of the conversation.”

“Are you well?”

“Quite well, thank you.” He reached for a cup of wine, which sat next to his seat. “Goodness. I just thought for a moment, that… well, it’s hardly of consequence to you.”

“What was it?”

He took a sip of wine, watching her balefully.

It wasn’t her fault, really. He ought to pay more attention to his reactions. He couldn’t very well go around roping humans into his personal problems every time he thought he sensed a Demon. 

Though to be entirely fair, the Demonic presence was still there, and though he couldn’t be sure after so long, it could very well be Crawly.

Tola entered the room from the childrens’ bedroom and shut the door quietly before joining Dinah and Aziraphale sitting down. He looked from one of them to the other, then frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“Aziraphale was just telling me about something troubling him.”

Really, that was frightfully rude and manipulative. Aziraphale set his wine back down, then sighed. “I just thought that perhaps an old friend was in the city.”

“An old friend? From before you came to Susa?”

“Indeed.” He shrugged. “I’m sure it was nothing.”

“How did you know?” Tola asked. “A letter, or—”

“Just a feeling. Ludicrous, I know. Like I said, it’s nothing!” If it wasn’t, he would have to work out how to deal with it…

Dinah took a sip of her own wine, leaning back in her chair. “I doubt it’s nothing. You have a sense for things, my grandad always said.”

Aziaphale glanced at her, then flicked his gaze away. “Hardly, my dear.”

“Are they from Jerusalem, too?” Tola sounded excited.

“Not really.”

“Babylon?” Dinah asked.

“One could say that,” Aziraphale conceded. After all, it was after Babel that he’d agreed to Crawly’s little treaty. Where he’d had to think of them as… something other than the Adversary. 

Then again, thinking back, there had been an inkling of something else at the very Beginning, after Adam and Eve left the Garden… 

Goodness, he must be a sight.

Aziraphale sat up straighter, tugging his robes fretfully, then took another sip of wine before looking back at Dinah. “Really, it’s a matter of little importance. I hardly know this person, and that’s assuming it is even them. It could well be part of their si—er, family, and I have no interest in meeting _them_ , thank you very much.”

Dinah shrugged. “Suit yourself. I just think you could use more friends than just Tola and me.”

Aziraphale harrumphed. 


	358. 435 BC - Uz, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for depression (apathetic), violence, reference to torture, and reference to murder.

_435 BC. Uz, Achaemenid Empire, Mesopotamia._

Crowley rolled over in bed, groaning. She’d been sleeping for a while now. Maybe a few months? It was hard to say—she’d been sleeping, after all. Unfortunately, something told her she had to get up now.

Wasn’t fair. Sleep was much better. She didn’t have to think. Just had, like… dreams. 

Dreams sucked sometimes. Especially when she kept dreaming about Aziraphale smiling at her tenderly from across a table. Or reading a tablet on a hill someplace and running his fingers through her hair. Or sitting on a rooftop and complimenting her on the stars. Or any number of other tender and deeply un-Demonic scenarios her brain had conjured up since she went to sleep however long ago that was.

Anyway. She’d woken up for a reason. Something was off. Wasn’t it?

Something occult poked at her consciousness, and she sat up in bed, scowling at the ceiling. “I don’t care what this is, it’s Your bloody fault.”

There was no response, but what else was new.

She pushed off her blankets and miracled herself into clothes. Not any particular clothes. Why bother with visualizing properly, honestly. 

If there were other Demons in the city, the safest thing to do was probably to go see what was up. So as to not end up tortured and all. 

She pushed the door open, hissing at the sun, and miracled a veil on, then stomped out into the street. 

The occult presence seemed to be coming from near one of those wealthy houses. All belonged to the same bloke. Or maybe his kids?

Honestly, Crowley hadn’t really been paying attention. Just picked a spot. Did enough temptations to not get in trouble. Whoopee.

Sure enough, a few doors away from the house stood a pair of Demons. One was short and disturbingly thin, draped in robes. There was a tentacle of some sort wrapped around their visible wrist. The other Demon was tall and burly, with what looked something like a literal bird’s nest in their hair.

“Hi, guys,” Crowley said.

The small one whirled around. “Who goes there?” They had wavy pupils and their skin seemed to be shifting to match the wall behind them. 

“’S me. Crowley. What’re you doing here?”

“We are here to prove ourselves,” the tall one said, their voice disturbingly twittery. 

“’Course you are.” She sniffed. “Won’t make a difference.”

“What?”

“Don’t mind me. Been topside for a few millennia. It’s getting to me. You know how it is.” She crossed her arms. “What’re you doing here, though? Specifically.”

“Assignment from the Boss,” the tall one said. “We’re killing the children of Job.”

Right. Of course they were. Although— “I thought he was super… y’know. Devout, or whatever? Won’t killing his kids make Her mad?”

“We have permission,” the smaller one said proudly. “She and Satan are testing him.”

Crowley raised her eyebrows. “What, together?”

“We’re not supposed to tell people that part,” the big one said. “Remember?”

“Oh, right.” The little one frowned for a moment, then lurched forward, a knife clutched in their hand, and tackled Crowley into the dust.

Crowley’s back hit the ground, the air going out of her lungs in a big, undignified whoosh. 

“Don’t tell anyone,” the Demon said. “Or we’ll feed you to the hellhound pups.”

“The pups?” The taller Demon sounded confused.

“They don’t know how to kill quick.”

“Oh. Right.”

The smaller one turned their attention back to Crowley. “Don’t tell anyone,” they repeated.

“I won’t,” she said. “Loosen up. What the Heaven.”

They glared at her for a beat longer, then clambered off, the knife disappearing again. “Fine. But we don’t trust you.”

“We don’t?”

“Of course we don’t trust them, we’re Demons!”

“Oh, yeah…”

Crowley rolled her eyes. “’Course not. Totally untrustworthy, me.”

The small one narrowed their eyes. 

“I’m joking,” said Crowley, then turned and began walking away. “Have fun, I guess. I’ll go, er… tempt somebody.” Preferably somewhere that had alcohol. 


	359. 434 BC - Uz, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for depression (apathetic) and reference to murder.

_434 BC. Uz, Achaemenid Empire, Mesopotamia._

Crowley trudged down the road, kicking along a round jar she’d come upon when she left town. It had something in it. Water, maybe. She wasn’t really worried about it. It rolled nicely.

It was dusk, and most of the humans were inside already. She’d finished a temptation and was debating going back to her house. Trouble with that was, she kept oversleeping, which wasn’t fantastic for meeting her quotas.

She was in a field now, close to the spot where she arrived in Uz. She could see the rock sheep pen. It was empty now, though, since Job got everything taken away.

There was an idea. She hadn’t talked to Job yet. Maybe she should, considering how her boss seemed to be interested in him for some reason. 

Crowley left the jar behind at a crossroads and kept going toward where she thought his house was supposed to be. She hadn’t gone out of her way to learn, mind. It was just difficult not to learn where things were after living someplace for twenty years.

When the front of the house came into sight, she could see Job. He looked awful, sitting in the dirt and leaning against his house. Covered in boils, too, poor sap. 

He looked up as Crowley drew near. “Who’re you?”

“Nobody.” She sniffed. “Job, right?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Sounds like it.” She sat down cross-legged, a few paces away, and looked at him. “What’s up with you, then?”

He scowled and looked away. “Everyone knows already. Don’t make me go over it again.”

“Fair enough.” 

There was silence for a minute. Crowley could hear wind blowing over the pasture. The sky was getting darker, too.

“What do you want?” Job asked finally.

“Just curious, I guess. Wondered how you were coping. I mean. With the whole God-being-out-to-get-you thing.”

Job’s eyes went wide, though he wasn’t quite focused on her in the dusk. “You really believe that?”

“I mean, yeah. God’s out to get me, too.”

He scoffed. “Oh, I bet He is.”

“He is too!” Crowley sighed. “I’m serious. I lost my, er, family when I was a kid. And then the folks I found exiled me. And then I… I fell in love with somebody. And he can’t ever love me, so. Hates me, maybe.”

“All my children died,” said Job softly.

Crowley grimaced. “That’s no good.”

“No.” He looked down. 

“I’ve had… a lot of people die.” Crowley coughed. “A _lot_.” Hundreds by now, probably. And they weren’t all Her fault, but the point stood. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Eh.”

Job paused for a moment before speaking again. “I don’t get it, you know? Why me. Why would He bring all this down on me? I never meant to do anything wrong. I don’t even think I did. I’ve been virtuous, I did all the sacrifices…”

“God’s a wanker sometimes.”

Job let out a bark of cynical laughter before clapping a hand over his mouth, then uncovered it. “That’s proper blasphemy.”

Crowley smirked. “Glad to oblige.” 

“My friends think I’m unfaithful for criticizing Him.”

“Tossers.”

“They’re trying to help…”

“Sounds to me like you have plenty of faith. Or, had plenty of faith. And He broke it. Something He did can’t be your fault.”

Job gave her a wan smile. “I hope you’re right.”

“Always right, me.” She shrugged. “It’s a rotten old system.”

The door to Job’s house creaked open and a woman came out. She looked Crowley up and down, then looked at Job and said, in a very level voice, “Job, is she a prostitute?”

“Nah,” Crowley said. “My eyes look a bit funny, is all.”

Job frowned at her, then looked up at the woman. “I’ll come inside in a moment. We were talking.”

“Hmm. Better her than Eliphaz.”

“He’s just trying to help—”

“Or Zophar. Or Bildad.”

Job sighed. 

The woman waved to Crowley and went back inside.

“Your wife?” Crowley asked.

Job nodded, then stood slowly, grimacing. “Thank you for talking to me.”

Crowley stood too, brushing the dust off her clothes. “Don’t thank me.”

“What’s your name?”

“I can’t say.” If Satan and God both had it out for Job, telling him her name sounded like a very quick and effective path to unpleasantness. She gave him a half-smile, then turned to walk away into the night. 


	360. 421 BC - Susa, Iran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief manhandling.

_421 BC. Susa, Achaemenid Empire, Iran._

Aziraphale hesitated at the door to his house. He really ought to go out there and see to whom the occult presence belonged. He had been avoiding them for thirty years now. And he wasn’t even certain it was Crawly! If he went and made sure of who it was—or who it wasn’t—he could be done with this whole unpleasant business. 

He inhaled, squaring his shoulders. “Chin up, old chap.” If it was Crawly, he could air his grievances. If it wasn’t, well, he’d make sure they weren’t doing anything nefarious. Either way, he was working toward the greater good. That was settled, then. 

He opened the door, stepped out, and shut it. Then he began walking briskly in the direction of the occult presence.

The trouble was, his resolve was rather fickle. In some part of his mind, he’d worked out the real difficulty. It wasn’t one he fancied articulating, though. Something to do with feelings and Crawly. Awfully sticky, that.

Much better to box it up and tuck it away somewhere, along with all the little worries and beginnings of questions his mind had cooked up over the millennia.

The occult presence seemed to be coming from the artisan’s district, which made some sense. After all, Crawly had mentioned a foray into sculpting at some point. Perhaps they were involved in that again. 

Strangely, though, the presence seemed to be coming not from a sculptor’s shop but from a jeweler.

Aziraphale stepped up the door, and steadied himself one more time. Whatever happened, he was an Angel. He would be able to deal with it. 

He knocked on the door. 

Something crashed inside.

Oh dear. “I say, is everyone all right in there?”

No response was forthcoming.

Whoever it might be, Aziraphale had to be certain they were all right, until they gave him reason to believe they shouldn’t be. 

He drew back a step, then pushed against the door. The wood splintered, and he pulled the edges of the hole apart until he could climb through. 

A figure in dark clothing was crouched in the center of the room. They wore a veil over their eyes, and they were definitely a Demon. 

Aziraphale swallowed. “Crawly? Is that you?”

The Demon’s head twitched, and they sprang for the door behind him. 

Aziraphale lunged. He caught them by their robe and pinned them to the wall, then removed the veil. 

Yellow, slitted eyes stared back at him. 

His heart sank.

They were wrong. Those weren’t snake eyes. Cat, perhaps. The Demon didn’t really look like Crawly in any other respect, either—their cheeks too round, their teeth entirely the wrong sort of pointed. 

The Demon hissed at him through bared teeth.

Aziraphale released them and stepped back. “I’m—I’m terribly sorry, but I seem to have mistaken you for… someone else.”

They dropped back into a defensive crouch, eyes tracking him warily. 

“Off I pop, then.” Aziraphale backed toward the door. “No harm done, eh?”

They didn’t respond.

“Quite right.” He climbed awkwardly back through the door. “Toodle-oo.” 

The door was mended with a quick miracle, and he hurried off through the streets. 

Really, what had got into him lately?


	361. 414 BC - Uz, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for depression (apathetic), reference to murder, and reference to use of alcohol as a coping mechanism.

_414 BC. Uz, Achaemenid Empire, Mesopotamia._

Crowley laid on the floor of her house, her hair spread out in a circle on the floor. She wasn’t drunk anymore. Sobered up. Her mouth tasted awful, but she didn’t feel like doing anything about it. 

She wasn’t really sure how long she’d been laying there. A few days, maybe? The sun had risen and set a few times. She’d drunk the cask of wine she had on the floor with her multiple times over as well. 

Her current report looked… scanty, at best. Thin. Probably wouldn’t be the best for staying in Dagon’s…. well, not good graces, since she wasn’t good and had no graces. Whatever the Demonic equivalent of good graces was. Bad damnations? Bad accursed-ness? Bad gracelessness? 

Ugh. 

“Thing is,” she said to the empty room, “It doesn’t bloody make sense. Which I guess shows just how much You don’t care about anybody, but… the humans think you do. And maybe you do, I guess. But not caring, like _good_ caring.”

She watched a spider crawl across the ceiling. “I mean, talk about petty. Murdering a man’s family because Satan made you insecure? Satan makes Demons insecure all the time and they don’t go around murdering peoples’ families.” She paused, then frowned. “Shit, a lot of them do. Forget that last bit. Point is, it’s not an excuse. You’re literally all mighty. _The_ Almighty. Seems pretty fucking immature to go ruin a man’s life because you’re worried he’s not as faithful as he seems.”

The sun was rising now, grey light filtering into the room. “And then you go and give it all back. What the fuck. Are you that clueless? Honestly? You could bring his kids back to life, but no, you gave him new kids. What kind of heartless—clueless—fuck.” Crowley hissed, and rolled her eyes. 

It didn’t matter. Not really.

She ought to do a temptation today. Didn’t really feel like it, though. Might just lay on the floor more. 


	362. 399 BC - Susa, Iran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to adultery.

_399 BC. Susa, Achaemenid Empire, Iran._

Aziraphale smiled fondly as the human he’d been guiding walked off in the other direction with his young daughter. Another guidance done and dusted. 

It was a lovely feeling.

He turned and set off in the direction of the market. Surely he’d earned himself something in compensation? Not that he needed compensation for doing God’s work, of course, but there was something comforting about having a bite to eat now and again. 

At the entrance to the market, however, Aziraphale hesitated.

The Demon stood across the market, hunched in on themself, having an animated discussion with a human. 

A temptation, then. He ought to thwart them. He’d been attempting to every now and again for some years now, but they kept extricating themself from the conversation before Aziraphale could get close enough. 

There was always, of course, the more unpleasant option of smiting them or discorporating them forcibly. The trouble with that was, he hadn’t actually seen them do anything that really warranted it. No temptations to murder, for one. And very few properly harmful things. Lots of low-grade temptations, like lust and sloth.

Either way, he ought to thwart them now. 

Aziraphale stood to the side of the path into the market, observing. The human was nodding along to the Demon’s words, which was a bit worrying. 

Perhaps if he ventured toward them around the side, the Demon wouldn’t notice him until he was close enough to interrupt the temptation properly.

He made his way around the market as stealthily as possible, willing those humans who he could affect not to see him. The others did cast him an odd look or two, but no more than the average number directed at a beardless man-shaped being dressed as he was. 

When he was at the stall across from the Demon and human, he paused. 

“—I don’t know. It doesn’t seem right.”

“You’re right.” The Demon watched them, barely moving. “But doesn’t it sound fun?”

“I mean… yes. And he is—I mean, have you seen his forearms?”

The side of the Demon’s mouth quirked up. “Why not give it a try? Nobody has to know. Definitely not your husband.”

Aziraphale huffed. Well, really. Lust was all well and good, but the poor husband’s trust would be betrayed!

He strode out from behind the stall. “Pardon me. I couldn’t help but overhear.”

The Demon whirled, then darted away into the crowd.

Aziraphale drew up to the human, watching the Demon with his best impression of innocent confusion. “Dear me. I don’t suppose you would happen to know them?”

The human watched him with wide, frightened eyes and shook their head hurriedly.

“A pity.” He hadn’t been able to find where they were quartered, largely due to what seemed to be a substantial quantity of anti-Angel wards. “Their name, perhaps?”

The human didn’t respond.

Aziraphale sighed. “I will not be reporting you for adultery. Honestly, what do you take me for? You have not done anything to hurt your spouse yet. So long as you continue in that vein, they shall remain none the wiser.”

The human blinked.

“Do you recall the name of the De—er, that is, person who just left?”

“Prelos?” The human said tremulously. 

“Excellent. That’s wonderfully helpful.” He folded his hands in front of him. “Now, then. Is there anything you find yourself in need of?”

The human shook their head.

“Jolly good.” Aziraphale inclined his head. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be off. Quite a lot to do, you know.” He turned. “Have a lovely day.”


	363. 394 BC - Susa, Iran

_394 BC. Susa, Achaemenid Empire, Iran._

Aziraphale wrung his hands. “Is it truly necessary? I doubt she feels quite as invested in jewelry as all that…”

Raddai, one of Aziraphale’s human acquaintances, shrugged. “I want to do it.”

“It’s just an awful lot of money…”

Raddai stopped in front of a shop and turned to Aziraphale, expression kindly but perhaps slightly exasperated. “It’s fine, I promise. Relax.”

Aziraphale raised one finger to interject, but Raddai had already turned away and was going into the shop.

He huffed and followed Raddai in, then froze. 

Prelos stood on the other side of the room, back turned, but their shoulders up in obvious fright. 

“Hello!” Raddai kept going across the room. “I’m looking for something. Can you help me?”

Prelos turned smoothly past Aziraphale to focus on Raddai. “What can I do for you?”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “Raddai, I think perhaps another shop would be better.”

“What?” Raddai turned to look at him. “Why?”

“Why don’t you wait outside,” said Aziraphale with a bit more Angelic suggestion than he generally indulged in. 

Raddai’s jaw went slack and he walked out the door, shutting it behind him.

Prelos stood behind a table, hands braced on the top. “What do you want?”

“Nothing, really,” said Aziraphale stiffly. “Though your departure from my city would be most kind.”

“I won’t leave.”

“Hmm. Should our paths continue to cross, I may be compelled to smite or discorporate you.”

Prelos’s head tilted questioningly.* “Why?”

(* Aziraphale assumed their uncertainty stemmed from confusion at his use of smiting. This was incorrect, and largely due to the nearly four thousand years he had spent away from Heaven, which meant he still regarded smiting as far less common than it was. 

No, what Prelos was really puzzling over was why a notoriously ruthless Angel had elected to spare them. There were stories about the Principality with white hair in Hell, after all. Between the dozens of hapless Demons he’d smote or discorporated over the millennia and the reports of a certain Demon which emphasised his Angelic zeal, cunning, and martial prowess, Aziraphale had developed an—albeit not _entirely_ unwarranted—reputation.)

“Because you are a Demon,” snapped Aziraphale. “And I shan’t have you spoiling my city.”

“I’ll think about it,” Prelos said. 

Aziraphale humphed. “See that you do.”


	364. 378 BC - Uz, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for depression (apathetic).

_378 BC. Uz, Achaemenid Empire, Mesopotamia._

Crowley sat at the edge of a road leading into Uz, scraping at the dirt with a stick. She was tempting, supposedly. Looking for susceptible humans. 

Wasn’t her fault there weren’t any humans out here.

She’d been sitting for an hour or two, and written half a nursery rhyme from Mu in the dirt. Now she was trying to work out how to change the lyrics to make it more Demonic, so there wouldn’t be a problem if it ended up stuck in her head while she was in Hell.

Lullabies were much too catchy.

She scribbled out a particularly saccharine word and replaced it with ‘devourer of worlds.’ Trouble was, that had too many syllables in the language of Mu…

There was a noise up the road and Crowley looked up to see a human walking along with some sheep.

Ugh, that meant she had to actually tempt someone.

She scratched out the words in the dust with the stick and got to her feet. Wasn’t especially likely anyone around here could read Ugran writing, but another Demon or Angel technically might and she didn’t want to risk it.

“Oi!”

The human paused in the middle of the road, and cocked their head. “Who’re you?” They called in Aramaic.

“Name’s Crowley,” she said. 

The human drew up to her with the sheep, frowning. “Is everything okay?”

Fantastic, somebody worried about their fellow humans. Good for a temptation, though. 

She nodded. “Yeah. What’re you supposed to be doing now?”

“Taking my father’s sheep to market.”

“Mmm. What if you didn’t.”

The human gawked at her. “Bad things?”

“Excellent. Come on, let’s go, er. Get drunk.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Let’s go get drunk.”

“The sheep would run away.” The human shook their head. “No, I can’t do that. Who are you, anyway? If you’re a thief, you’re really bad at it.”

Crowley groaned. “Please.”

“No.” They huffed. 

A sheep nipped at her clothes and she made a rude gesture at it. 

The human gaped at her. “What’s wrong with you? Honestly.” They turned and began walking away.

Crowley watched them leave. “A lot of things,” she said quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a heads-up, there's a chance updates will be a bit irregular over the next week or so. :)


	365. 367 BC - Susa, Iran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to torture.

_367 BC. Susa, Achaemenid Empire, Iran._

Aziraphale watched Prelos warily. They were perched on top of a house, yellow eyes flashing in the dark, watching him. He’d had to make sure humans didn’t come near, since he needed to use divine light to see.

“I’m not coming down there,” said Prelos. “You’re going to smite me.”

“The humans here are under my protection,” said Aziraphale. “And may I remind you that, if I so wished, I could fly up there with you.”

One of Prelos’s cat-like ears twitched. “Why don’t you, then?”

“I don’t particularly enjoy smiting.” He sighed. “Now, will you please come down so we can discuss your imminent departure like civilized beings?”

“You don’t enjoy smiting?”

Drat. “It is my duty, from time to time. As an Angel, I am not meant to enjoy things in the same way as more, er… well, you know. Other beings.”

“So if I come down, you won’t smite me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Prelos skittered further back along the roof.

“That is to say, it would depend on… er, that is, yes I would.” That was what he was meant to do, after all. The only Demon he’d ever agreed _not_ to smite was Crawly, and that was different somehow. 

Though he couldn’t for the life of him work out what was different about it. 

“It would depend on what?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Aziraphale with no little bluster.

“You just said it.”

“I said nothing of the sort.”

“You’re lying.”

“Angels don’t lie.”

“You just did, though.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You said that already.”

Aziraphale scowled and looked away. 

“Always thought it was funny, Crawly never getting smote.”

Aziraphale tensed and looked up at them. “Who?”

Prelos shot him a dubious look. “Crawly. Snake Demon. Hang on, weren’t you in Eden?”

“Oh, that Crawly!” Aziraphale forced a chuckle. “Wily adversary.”

“You’re a fucking terrible liar.”

Aziraphale inhaled sharply. This could go very badly indeed. “I am an Angel.”

“That doesn’t make you any better at lying.”

“We don’t lie.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re so bad at it.”

His face was awfully warm for the chill of the night. “Regardless, I have no—that is, I can’t fathom what you could possibly be implying.”

“You never tried to smite Crawly.”

“I did,” said Aziraphale shortly. In Eridu. Surely another time as well…

Prelos narrowed their eyes at him, then sat back on the roof with a shrug. “You did.”

Oh dear. They were awfully perceptive, weren’t they? “Of course I did.”

“But not recently.” Prelos tilted their head. “Let’s make a truce, then.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You made one with Crawly, didn’t you?”

“I…”

“I’m being a Heaven of a lot less destructive than I could be.”

That was true. He’d only encountered them doing anything truly abhorrent once or twice. Which had happened with Crawly too, and they always said it was because of an assignment… perhaps the same was true of Prelos.

“Truce?” 

He looked at the sky. It wasn’t anything more than he’d done before. And they seemed… acceptable, as Demons went. Surely it was worth it to minimize violence.

But he couldn’t agree straightaway. It wouldn’t do to look anything nearing _eager_. “Come down here.”

Prelos crept to the edge of the roof, then jumped down, landing on their feet and straightening slowly. They were a head shorter than Aziraphale, their skin paler than most around these parts. 

“Why should I agree?” Aziraphale asked.

“You don’t want to smite me,” said Prelos. “And I don’t like being a Demon.”

“Really?”

They shook their head, expression sad. “I’ve regretted Falling for a long time now. Hurting people… it doesn’t agree with me.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “I—that is, that sounds terribly unpleasant.”

“That’s why I’m up here,” Prelos said. “It’s easier to do good under the radar on Earth than in Hell. I get tortured less, too.”

“Tortured?”

“Demons torture their own all the time.” 

Aziraphale swallowed. He’d suspected, of course. Crawly used to say things or make particular expressions that suggested Hell might be… like that. But to hear it said out loud— “All of them?”

“All of us.”

“Dear me. I’m so terribly sorry.”

Prelos swallowed visibly, looking down at their feet then back at Aziraphale. “Please… I don’t want to go back down there. If I’m discorporated—or worse, smote—I won’t be able to come up for a long time. And I’m only just learning things. There’s so much to do and see.”

Goodness. Aziraphale could hardly let them go back down. “You’ll do minimal evil, then?”

“Just enough to fill out my reports.”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale sighed. This was… rather fast, perhaps. Sudden. But Prelos seemed earnest. And he’d hate to be the cause of their misfortune, particularly if they truly wished to do good.

Which did seem a bit strange, to be sure, but… well, perhaps they were different. Not _quite_ a Demon. 

He nodded decisively. “I won’t smite you.”

Prelos gave a small smile, yellow eyes sparkling, and stepped forward, holding out a hand. “You won’t regret it.”

Aziraphale shook their hand. “Glad to have that cleared up.” He stepped back. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I have some business to attend to. Best of luck with, er…” Hell, but he couldn’t exactly say that, now could he? “Your side.”

“Thank you.”


	366. 359 BC - Susa, Iran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for alcohol use.

_359 BC. Susa, Achaemenid Empire, Iran._

Aziraphale set down his stylus from where he’d been writing down an anecdote about Jacob and frowned in the direction of the door. There was a Demonic presence nearby—most likely Prelos.

Since their truce, they’d been talking more and more often. Prelos’s jewelry was delicate, and far prettier than Aziraphale would ordinarily expect of a Demon. Then again, they weren’t really a proper Demon in the way others were.

It was clear they didn’t enjoy Hell. Crawly, of course, had never made it out to be pleasant, but Aziraphale hadn’t given much thought to how terrible it would be to be stuck in such a place when one didn’t enjoy evil. Prelos’s assignments were vile, and the ways they managed to do them slightly more kindly were quite clever.

Well. If it was them, he ought to see what it was they wanted.

He stood and went to open the door. 

Prelos stood in the middle of the street, holding an amphora and turning in circles. They looked terribly confused, poor thing.

Aziraphale waved a hand, dropping the wards around his house. “Hello?”

Prelos turned, a smile tugging at the corner of their mouth. “Aziraphale!”

“Are you quite well?”

“I couldn’t find you, but I’m better now.” They walked toward his house, expression uncertain. “I, uh. I brought wine. Do you drink?”

“On occasion.” Aziraphale folded his hands in front of him. “I sometimes find it necessary in the presence of humans.”

“Is that so?”

“Quite.” He pursed his lips, then gestured toward his house. “Would you like to come in? Only I wouldn’t like to be seen.”

“Good idea.” Prelos brushed past him and walked up, pausing in the doorway. They turned slowly. “No wards?”

“Not against you. I believe they may have been the reason you couldn’t find me at first.”

They smiled again. “I’m flattered.”

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale looked away. “Go inside.”

Prelos laughed, but followed instructions, and soon Aziraphale found himself sitting opposite them, a few cups apiece into the amphora. 

“Well, you see, I was in an argument with Cr—er, that is, another member of Noah’s family. And he thought—”

“Over what?” Prelos asked.

“I was attempting to, er, _mediate_ a dispute between Na-eltama-uk and Ataden—Adanese—that is, another one, and he was stirring up trouble. So, when I attempted to stop him, he, being that sort, pushed me!”

“He pushed you? Into the water?”

“Oh, no. Not yet, at any rate. He’s not nearly strong enough.”

“I see.”

“No, he pushed me, so naturally I pushed him back, and he fell in.”

“Did he now?”

“He did. And had the audacity to pull me in with him.”

Prelos laughed. “I wish I could have seen it.”

Aziraphale chuckled. It wasn’t one of his fondest memories of Crawly—they’d still been enemies, really—but he had looked quite funny all wet and angry. 

Prelos sat forward to refill his wine. “Another?”

“Oh, I’m not sure how many more stories I have in me.”

“Nearly four thousand years on Earth? Come on.”

“Thirty-six hundred.”

Prelos scoffed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I am not.” He sniffed. “I am accurate.”

“One more, please?”

“I suppose.” He took a drink of wine, then smoothed his robe and tilted his head in thought. “Well, there was one time I met an Egyptian noble who’d never eaten a fig.”

“Never?”

“Not ever.” Aziraphale could still remember Crawly’s expression quite well. They had looked quite surprised. “I picked one off the tree and gave it to them.”

“Did they like it?”

“Not terribly well, I think. Although, they had excellent taste in wine.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale smiled fondly into his cup. Prelos’s wine was _almost_ as good. 

“They sound nice,” Prelos said. 

Aziraphale looked up to see them watching him. Their eyes shone gold in the low light. 

Goodness. 

“Tell me more?” Prelos asked.

He looked away again, nodding hurriedly. “Yes, of course. Let me see…”


	367. 351 BC - Susa, Iran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence, blood, reference to torture, deadnaming, implied murder, and emotional abuse (Heaven).

_351 BC. Susa, Achaemenid Empire, Iran._

Aziraphale stood in front of Prelos’s house, wringing his hands. They’d sent him a note requesting his presence, but now he was here, there didn’t seem to be any sign of them. Though, judging by the abject lack of Demonic presence, it stood to reason they were inside, and simply had wards against detection…

He rapped at the door before he could think the better of it. “Hello?”

The house remained silent for a moment. Then the door creaked open, and Prelos’s veiled face appeared. 

“Ah, there you are.”

Prelos opened the door wider. “Come in.”

He stepped inside and Prelos shut the door, then removed their veil. They set it on a hook by the door, and turned to study him, arms crossed.

“Er… was there anything in particular you wanted?”

Prelos shrugged. “Not sure. I think I’m done, though.”

“Done with what?”

“Earth.”

Aziraphale frowned. “I thought you hated Hell.”

“It’s not amazing.” They turned and went to rummage in a stack of items in the corner of their otherwise spartan lodgings. “I got used to it, though. After a while.”

Something wasn’t quite adding up here. “Are you in trouble? Did Hell find out?”

“What?” Prelos glanced back over their shoulder, then scoffed and looked back down. “No, of course not.”

“Oh. Good. Er… you are Prelos, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” They stood, still facing away. There was something in their hand, but Aziraphale couldn’t see what it was.

“I can’t assist you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong,” he said softly. There was something wrong, though. He could feel it in the air, creeping up his spine and making him break out in gooseflesh. 

Prelos snapped their fingers, and Aziraphale could feel wards going up around the house.

Oh, no. 

What made Prelos change their mind? Perhaps their superiors _had_ found out, and were forcing them to turn on him. Or— 

They faced him, a bronze knife glinting in the light coming through the windows.

Ah. So, that was that then. 

He’d thought—

Well, he’d been wrong. They were a Demon, for Heaven’s sake, and he was just Creation’s most incompetent Angel.

“You should see the look on your face,” said Prelos.

Aziraphale exhaled sharply, then attempted to assume an aloof demeanor. Perhaps, if he could convince them he wasn’t worried, they would back down… although, now he was thinking of it, there wasn’t really a good resolution to this. 

He’d said things to them that, if Heaven heard… it didn’t bear thinking about. 

Prelos tilted their head. “Say something.”

“No.”

Prelos bared their teeth. “Coward.”

Aziraphale’s throat closed at that, but he managed to speak anyway. “No.”

They began moving, not lunging for him yet, but circling, their movements languid. They held the knife with a confidence Aziraphale recognized. He’d held his sword like that, once.

“You know, Hell thinks so highly of Crawly for besting you. But that’s not what they’ve done, is it?”

Aziraphale watched them, trying not to let his feelings show on his face, though he was sure he was failing miserably. 

Would Crawly be in danger, now Prelos knew they’d agreed to a truce? A conversation they’d once had in Waset flickered by. ‘ _They can’t find out. Not ever. They’d hurt me. Bad._ ’

“They don’t evade you. You struck a truce.”

Aziraphale swallowed. 

“Is that all you’ve done?” Prelos asked, circling closer. “A truce is one thing…”

They were in arms’ reach now. Then they stopped at his shoulder. How had he never noticed how they smelled of sulphur? 

“Becoming _friends_ is another,” they purred. 

Aziraphale moved, one fist hitting them in the gut as he grabbed for their knife with his other hand. 

Prelos’s yellow eyes widened, and they stumbled back. “What?”

Aziraphale yanked the knife free and brandished it. It burned with occult energy, so it wouldn’t be as effective as he needed it to be. Not on Prelos, at any rate. 

They couldn’t be allowed to go back to Hell. The consequences would be unthinkable, and not just for him. He needed—he needed—

Prelos’s claws tore through his forearm, and Aziraphale cried out, then spun. The knife in his hand made contact with their chest, tearing their clothing, and coming away bloody. 

The Demon fell back, hissing at him. 

Aziraphale glanced over the little house. The wards meant that he couldn’t leave, or summon anything, or smite. But there was only one thing he needed, he could do the rest himself, it didn’t take much…

Prelos lunged at him again, and he was ready this time. The knife plunged into their chest, and they collapsed to the ground. 

He didn’t have long before they discorporated. He reached down and tore a strip of cloth from his robe, muttering a blessing under his breath. Then he crossed the room to Prelos, and tied their wrists as their eyes closed from blood loss.

As soon as the cloth was knotted, the wards collapsed, and Aziraphale exhaled. He ran a hand over the wound in Prelos’s chest, closing the skin. The wound itself remained, though, so they wouldn’t regain strength. Or consciousness. 

With the immediate danger taken care of, Aziraphale worked methodically, breathing as steadily as he could manage. The portal was drawn, and Michael appeared. He explained what had happened, even as they watched him with obvious distaste, and took Prelos away. They wouldn’t be returning to Hell. 

Aziraphale left the house and walked slowly back toward his own as night fell. A human he’d met before tried to talk to him, but he waved him off. 

When he arrived home, he banished the knife and sank to his knees with a soft sob. It wasn’t fair. He’d been trying to do good, and they’d—they’d taken advantage of it. 

The worst bit was, he wasn’t quite sure good was his only motive. Because there was something about Prelos’s yellow eyes that…

He couldn’t think about it. 


	368. 340 BC - Uz, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for depression (apathetic).

_340 BC. Uz, Achaemenid Empire, Mesopotamia._

To Dagon, Lord of the Tablets.

 **When** : Autumn. 3664 years After Creation. 

**Where** : Uz, Achaemenid Empire, Asia, Earth, Material Reality.

 **What [The Big Stuff]** : Tempt humans to sin to bring about Armageddon and the triumph of Hell.

 **What [Minutiae You Still Can’t Screw Up Without At Least A Little Bit of Discomfort Afterwards]** : Keep a major figure in a town from being too good. 

**Report** : Temptations the last couple decades’ve been scarce on the ground. Lots of overly virtuous humans. Not nearly sinful enough. I’m considering going someplace else because of it. 

Big temptation this time around was a bloke named Joseph. Pretty uncreative name if you ask me, but that was his name. Anyway. He started out super good. Y’know, all the usual stuff. Prayed. Sacrifices. He spent a lot of time talking about that one scroll* with other humans. Ate the right foods. Wore the right clothes. All that ~~shit~~ stuff. 

(* Crowley knew that the Torah was called the Torah, but tried to ignore its existence as much as possible because it was writing, and writing reminded her of Aziraphale. It would be some time before she learned that Aziraphale had, in fact, had a hand in assembling it. When she did, she felt very justified in her earlier behaviour, and said as much. However, as she failed to provide any more context, her conversational partner—Aziraphale—was very confused.)

Point is, he was a self-righteous bastard, and also one of the town leaders. So I corrupted him. After a couple of years, he was doing all sorts of bad things. Drinking. Lust. Lots of that. Punched a bloke in the face ~~for insulting a poor~~ once, so wrath too. Spent a lot of time trying to get a rise out of people for fun. 

More standard temptations in tablets attached. It’s all pretty routine. 

No sign of the Opposition. Or, not really. Sensed an Angel once, but they were a long way off, so I didn’t engage. 

**Questions** : Not right now. 


	369. 311 BC - Susa, Iran

_331 BC. Susa, Iran_.

Aziraphale paused mid-sentence and frowned. “Can you hear that?”

Sarah, an old Jewish woman who he’d guided some thirty years ago and later begun speaking with in a more social capacity, tilted her head to listen. “It sounds like a crowd.”

“Hmm.” Everyone had been on edge since a Macedonian fellow conquered Harran in the summer. It was worrying, to say the least, but he’d hoped Susa would escape the worst of it. “I do hope nothing’s wrong.”

“Come on, then.” Sarah stood, taking her cane from beside her chair. “It won’t do any good for us to sit here.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He stood as well and brushed off his robes. “Have you heard anything of note that might cause such hullabaloo?”

She shook her head. “Not since Babylon fell.”

“I keep forgetting that happened,” said Aziraphale. They’d heard a few weeks after Yom Kippur, but it kept slipping his mind. “Are you well enough to walk today?”

“Absolutely.” She made her way to the door and pulled a shawl about her shoulders, then opened the door before looking back at Aziraphale, who was still putting on his robe. “Are you coming?”

“Yes, just a moment.” He tugged it around his shoulders and smoothed the front down, then followed her outside. “Lead the way.”

There were other people outside, some standing at the doorstep, others walking in the direction of the hubbub. Susa had been… odd, since the empire’s loss in Guagamela. Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure how he ought to feel about it, but he’d resolved to go along with whatever came to pass. 

Though he didn’t really have another option.

Toward the centre of the city, he could hear more shouting, as well as the sound of hooves.

At the side of the road, a small gathering of vaguely familiar-looking humans appeared to be talking. One of them waved to Sarah, and she led him to join them. 

“What’s going on?” She asked.

“The Macedonians have taken Susa,” said another human—Ephraim, perhaps?

“Oh. Well, it’s not as though we didn’t know it was coming.” Sarah crossed her arms. “Are we in danger?”

“We don’t know yet. They’re talking to the Persians.”

“Mmm.” She looked at Aziraphale. “What do you think?”

Aziraphale frowned. “I only know as much as you do, my dear.”

“Sometimes you know things.”

“Ah. Er. Not in this case.” He glanced toward the center of town, then back to the group. “I don’t suppose anyone knows whether Macedonians are kindly toward conquered peoples or not?”

Ephraim shrugged. “I’ve heard mixed things. Maybe?”

“How comforting.” He would be all right, either way. But that didn’t make him any less concerned for the humans. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alexander the Great has conquered Susa, folks. It’s incredibly surreal to be in, like… well-known ancient history after this long. 
> 
> It's been a bit since I wrote this scene, but I _believe_ the references to other cities being conquered are intended to fall in line with historical records of when those cities were conquered by Alexander the Great.


	370. 324 BC - Uz, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for depression (apathetic), injury/illness (nausea), themes of self-harm, and referenced torture.

_324 BC. Uz, Macedonian Empire, Mesopotamia._

Crowley let herself into her house and stumbled inside, slamming the door and sliding down against it. Her head was pounding, but she’d made it back in one piece. Just had to put up the wards…

She snapped her fingers, and a fresh wave of nausea washed over her. 

It served her right, really. She knew when she turned it in that it was going to piss people downstairs off. Just… hadn’t been able to make herself care about it.

Which is how she wound up here.

At least she wasn’t bleeding. Could’ve been worse.

Had to pull it together one of these days. Wouldn’t survive another report like that. Well, she might _survive_ , but she probably wouldn't make it back to Earth. And that was nearly as bad.

She found herself tilting sideways, and righted herself, hissing when she put her hand down on the ground. 

Bloody Hastur.

It wasn’t his fault, though. Not really. He was just being a proper Demon, unlike some people. 

‘Some people’ being Crowley.

Ugh. She needed to do something.

Crowley dragged herself up off the floor and staggered toward the table, where she grabbed a block of wax and a knife and sat down.

The wax was actually a souvenir from her last temptation before Hell nabbed her. Something about smuggling. Couldn’t quite remember at the moment. 

But it would work just as well.

She worked the wax with shaking hands, the knife peeling up pale golden curls that crumbled off and left residue on her fingers. It wasn’t her best work. Not by a long shot. She was out of practice, and half out of her mind with pain.

It didn’t really matter, though. Apples could be lopsided.

Once she’d got the main part of the shape out of the way, she set the knife down and started smoothing the seams out with her less damaged thumb. It wasn’t totally pain-free—the beeswax was tacky and pulled at the delicate skin on her thumb—but it was soothing anyway. 

By the time she’d finished, the sun was rising. Crowley set the wax apple down on her table, and stood to go collapse onto her bed. 

She groaned as she fell in, and tugged a slightly musty blanket gingerly over herself, then shut her eyes. 

She made it. 


	371. 312 BC - Uz, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for depression (apathetic).

_312 BC. Uz, Macedonian Empire, Mesopotamia._

Crowley leaned over the table of the human she was talking to. “Thing is. Thing’s. I don’t understand why it’s gotta be me.”

“Why what’s got to be you?” The human, a short woman whose name Crowley had forgotten about ten seconds after hearing it, was slightly less drunk than Crowley was. Probably came of actually thinking about how much one was drinking. Having to worry about liver damage and all that.

“Falling in love,” said Crowley bitterly. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Or, guess I did actually.”

“Lots of people fall in love.”

“Not like this.” She sniffed and took another gulp of wine. “’S extra bad, for me. Really bad. And ’m not meant to be able to, so. That’s worse.”

“Not meant to be able to?”

“Nope. Not in the job description.” She dipped a finger in her wine and pulled it out to watch the wine drip back into the glass. “Torture, sure. Sin, yeah. Lust… ehh, maybe. Love? Not a whisper. Not a peep.”

“Why does your job have torture?” The human looked confused and too drunk to be properly concerned.

“Don’t worry about it.” She used the wine to write a sigil on her arm, then licked it off. “Point is. Not s’posed to happen.”

The human hummed sympathetically.

“Guess it might be punishment, though. Not exactly a stellar Demon. Too bloody nice, I guess.”

The human set their cup down to frown at her. “Being nice is good.”

“Sure is. Yeah. And I’m not meant to be good.”

“Oh. That’s unusual.”

“Tell me about it.”

They fell into companionable silence for a few more minutes. A fire burned in the hearth, making the odd popping or crackling noise every now and again.

“Just have to live with it.”

Crowley looked up. “Huh?”

“Love. No other option.”

“Guess not.” She took another sip of wine. “Hurts, though.”

“That’s love for you.”

She paused. “Humans, too?”

“Everyone.”

“What do you know.” She rested her elbow on the table, chin in hand. “How do you all cope?”

The human shrugged. “Like I said—you just have to learn to live with it.”

“Bloody terrible advice, that. Doesn’t say what to _do_.”

“I think everybody does it differently. You know. Painting, cooking, finding other people to—”

“Right riot of advice you are.”

“It’s not the end of the world, is all I’m saying.”

She rolled her eyes. “I know that. That’s for later.”

The human blinked.

Crowley waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it.”


	372. 301 BC - Derinkuyu, Anatolia

_301 BC. Derinkuyu, Seleucid Empire, Anatolia._

Crowley reached the base of the stairs and stepped off, turning slowly to look around at the room. It wasn’t terribly large, but that made sense considering it was carved into rock.

“What d’you think?” Iacovos, a human she’d been talking to for a few weeks, gestured around at their surroundings. “Doesn’t look like much, but it kept my mum and dad safe when the Macedonians attacked.”

“I bet it did.” Crowley ran a hand over the rock. It seemed solid enough. “How far do these go on?”

“Sixty meters deep,” said Iacovos proudly.

Crowley raised her eyebrows. “Not bad.”

“Do you want to see? It’s a bit spooky…”

“I’ll be all right.”

“Come on, then.” Iacovos beckoned and led her to a doorway, where steps led down into darkness, shadows falling away at the approach of his torch. 

Crowley followed him down. At each room, Iacovos explained its purpose. There were sleeping areas, and places for livestock, and ones for worship.

“Does your family worship the local gods, then?” Crowley asked.

Iacovos shook his head. “We’re Jewish. Been here for more than two hundred years, though, so we’re as local as anybody else.”

“Mmm. Lot more local than me.”

“Where did you say you were from, again?”

“Mesopotamia. Uz, it’s called. Little place. Nobody’s heard of it.”

“Is that near Harran?”

“Eh… not really.” Uz wasn’t really _near_ anywhere. It just was.*

(* Crowley told herself this to help remain in denial about the fact that she’d only left by mistake. She’d been drunk one day, fell asleep in a cart, and woke up two weeks later in a burial cave. Wasn’t the most pleasant experience in the world—took her months to get to smell out. And by the time she’d tried to go back, she had no idea where she was or how to get back to Uz. Seemed as good a time as any for a change of scene, so she’d headed north.)

Iacovos paused in a room at a lower level and leaned against the wall, watching her. “Why d’you wear that veil?”

She shrugged. “My eyes are a bit odd. Not very _pretty_ , you could say. People tend to run screaming.”

Iacovos laughed. “Are they really that bad?”

“Oh, yeah. Horrible.” She said it like it was a joke, even though it really wasn’t.

“Can I see them someday?”

Shit. She needed an explanation. “Er… no?”

“Just for your husband, then?”

“Yeah.” That worked as well as any excuse. Although— “I’m not marrying you. Not up for marrying anyone, really.” It sounded like a Heaven of a lot of work for… stuff Demons weren’t allowed to have.

Iacovos shrugged. “I guess that’s fair. I have a—anyway.”

Crowley raised her eyebrows, but didn’t comment.

Iacovos looked away. “Should we go back up?”

“Guess so, yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a real underground city in Derinkuyu, a city in modern-day Turkey. It’s super neat. I’m not sure if it was used to hide from Alexander’s forces specifically, but there seemed to be enough references to people hiding there from invaders that it was a safe bet.


	373. 291 BC - Derinkuyu, Anatolia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to adultery and sex.

_291 BC. Derinkuyu, Seleucid Empire, Anatolia._

Crowley looked sideways at Iacovos, who was standing next to her and glaring at the assembly. “Somebody’s tense.”

“It’s fine.”

She snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Ugh. “Is this about that girl again? Please tell me it’s not about the girl again.”

“It’s not.”

“What, then?”

“Stop bothering me.”

Crowley rolled her eyes. “Excuse me for trying to be friendly when you’re stewing. Why not do something about it?”

“There’s nothing to be done.”

“Really? Nothing?”

Another partygoer walked by, and Iacovos waited to talk until they’d gone past before speaking again. “Not really. Basically nothing.”

“Convincing.”

He huffed. “Look, it’s just… I’m being ridiculous. You don’t need to worry about it.”

“Oh?” Progress. “Why not tell me, then? If I will just think it’s ridiculous, then there’s no harm telling me.”

“It’s Averyamis. He knows that I liked Rachil. And he’s—” Iacovos crossed his arms, turned halfway away from Crowley. “He’s rubbing it in my face.”

Crowley followed Iacovos’s gaze to see Averyamis holding Rachil’s hand in a corner. They’d recently been married, though they didn’t look quite as obnoxiously affectionate as newlyweds tended to be. “So it is about the girl.”

“It’s not about her anymore.”

“Right. I’ll just believe that, shall I?”

“You’re no help.”

Crowley held up her hands in surrender. “Look, if you want my advice, why not do something about it? No sense standing here, wallowing.”

“What if I want to wallow?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Do you?”

He groaned. “Not really.”

“So, go on then. Do something about it.”

“What does ‘something’ even mean?”

“What d’you want it to mean?”

Iacovos looked down at the floor, then over at her. “I’m not sure.”

“Think about it for a bit, then.” She sniffed and leaned back against the wall. “We’ve got the whole night ahead of us. And if you need me to distract somebody…”

He chuckled. “Is that Rachil or Averyamis?”

“Either one.”

“Hmm. It’s not a bad idea.”

“Which one?”

“Both, maybe. One after the other.”

“What, are you going to try to shag them both?”

Iacovos looked over at her, eyes wide and scandalized. “Crowley!”

She shrugged. “Just guessing. I hear it’s a great way to break up a marriage. And he’s not bad-looking. I saw how he was looking at you last spring.”

He looked away again, shaking his head. “You know, you seem respectable until you say something like that.”

“Thanks.” She adjusted her veil where it had been slipping from one ear. “I’m going to find something to drink. Find me when you want that distraction.”


	374. 278 BC - Alexandria, Egypt

_278 BC. Alexandria, Ptolemaic Kingdom, Egypt_.

Aziraphale set a scroll down at his workspace and placed his tablet next to it, then sat. He’d developed a system of sorts in his years at the library, which was quite comforting.

He’d been obliged to leave Susa after the Seleucids took over, and spent some time travelling about until he heard of the library. It was a wonderful endeavour, truly. It made him miss the library in Nineveh, though he’d spent even less time there.

Indeed, he’d received summons in the morning requiring his presence in Jerusalem again within a few years. Apparently, he’d spent too long away from people who believed in God. It was silly, really, considering how long he’d spent with Egyptians at other times, but he would obey nevertheless.

A shuffling noise drew his attention to the doorway, and he looked up to see a young person—presumably a boy, these days—holding a tablet and watching him.

Aziraphale frowned. “Is something troubling you?” He spoke Greek, though his accent wasn’t quite up to snuff yet after just twenty years.

“I, er. Zenodotus said to ask you about Akkadian.”

“He was right to do so.” Aziraphale pushed his own work away with a sigh. “Bring it here.”

The boy hurried over and set the tablet on the table. “It is Akkadian, right?”

Aziraphale looked it over. “Hmm. Yes, it is. I’m afraid it will take me some time to translate it onto a scroll, but—”

“What is it?”

“A religious text, of sorts.” It looked quite old—a few hundred years, at least—but wasn’t of particularly high quality. The scribe’s cuneiform was sloppy, and the words appeared to have been smudged in places before firing. “What do you need it for?”

“We’re just adding it to the collection.”

“Ah.” He sighed, pushing it back toward the human. “Is it urgent? I have some other translating I was hoping to do.” He indicated his own tablet, which was over a thousand years old, from his own collection, and written in Sumerian.

  
The human’s eyes went wide. “Is that Akkadian too?”

Aziraphale tutted. “Hardly. That’s Sumerian. Really, what are they teaching you these days?”

“Greek,” said the boy apologetically. “But I speak Egyptian too.”

“I see.” He pulled his work forward again and began copying it. “Not Aramaic?”

“No, sir.”

“Gracious.” He dipped his pen again. “If you’ve nowhere else to be, why don’t you take a seat. I can show you how to read cuneiform.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Library of Alexandria? In this story? Apparently. Aziraphale just acquires languages like mad, I guess. 
> 
> Also, I have a tumblr now, @elderly-worm. I've been lurking for years and thought it was time to bite the bullet since I'm actually engaging in fandom these days. There's not really anything there yet, but I will make an effort to... do things. :D


	375. 272 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence, implied antisemitism, and injury.

_272 BC. Jerusalem, Seleucid Empire, Canaan._

Aziraphale paused in his walking and turned slowly, scanning the buildings around him. It was the middle of the day, and people were rushing about all around, shopping and chattering away. He thought he’d heard a shout, though.

“Help!” Someone shouted in Hebrew.

Aziraphale inhaled sharply and vanished the basket of bread he’d been carrying, then picked up his robes and hurried toward the sound.

The next road over was quieter, and a pair of men in Greek dress stood over a third, one of them holding a sword.

“I command you to stop at once,” said Aziraphale loudly in Greek.

The men turned, defensive. “Who’re you?” The taller one asked.

“I am coming to the aid of the person whom you are accosting. I recommend you surrender and once and explain yourselves.”

“He stole from us,” said the shorter. 

“Be that as it may, there are rules and procedures for such things.” He stopped, in fighting distance now. The fellow on the ground seemed well enough and was sitting up, though he sported the beginnings of a bruise on his eye. “Leave him alone, or I’m afraid you shall have to contend with me. And I assure you, I am significantly stronger than I appear.”

The taller one laughed and rolled his eyes at his partner, then the both turned toward the man on the ground, who was moving away.

Aziraphale stepped forward and pulled the shorter man back, plucking his sword from his grip with one hand while the other cast him into the dirt. Then he stepped between the taller man and the fallen one, the point of the sword at his throat. “ **Leave us alone** ,” he said with rather more volume than the average human throat could muster.

The Greeks’ eyes went wide and they scrambled away.

Aziraphale huffed. “Good riddance.” He tucked the sword into his belt—it wouldn’t dare damage his clothing—and turned to look at the other man.

The poor fellow was still sittin on the ground, eyes wide with shock. “Who are you?” He asked in Hebrew.

“A friend.” Aziraphale switched his language to match, smiled as kindly as he could, and offered a hand. “You needn’t be afraid.”

The man took his hand and he helped him to his feet. 

“No bones broken?”

“No,” the man said. “Are you okay?”

“Not a scratch.” He pulled the sword out and offered the hilt. “Would you like to keep it? I have no use for it.”

“I can’t fight with one.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Oh, dear.” He pulled a scrap of papyrus and inked pen from a fold in his robes which most definitely did not contain a pocket, and wrote an address down. He offered it to the man. “There you are. The couple who live there can teach you.”

He took the address gingerly, still watching Aziraphale. “Where did this come from?”

“My pocket,” said Aziraphale, putting just enough persuasive power behind the words.

The man looked at the writing, then back at him. “You can write in Hebrew.”

“Of course.”

“Okay.”

The poor dear still seemed rather dazed. 

Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulder and pressed the sword into his hand, administering a mild blessing. “Run along home now, then.” 

“Okay.” He began walking away. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem.” Aziraphale watched him go with a smile. Sometimes, being an Angel was really quite nice. 


	376. 262 BC - Derinkuyu, Anatolia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to adultery. Sort of. Not really.

_262 BC. Derinkuyu, Seleucid Empire, Anatolia._

Crowley flopped down into the grass next to Iacovos. “See anything good?”

Iacovos pointed up at one of the stars. “I like that one.”

“’S a good one, that.” They glanced over at him to make sure he wouldn’t look, then flipped their veil back and settled onto their forearms crossed behind their head. “How’s the mistress?”

“You know I don’t like it when you call her that.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault Averyamis is still married to her.” Except that it was, a bit. Sort of. They might’ve pushed the new, attractive young man in town in his direction, but they couldn’t have known they’d hit it off. And technically, Averyamis and Rachil couldn’t get divorced anyway, so…

“We’re happy,” said Iacovos.

“Yeah?” 

“I think so.”

“Brilliant.” Crowley wouldn’t report that bit, of course. And they needed a proper report this time, so they didn’t get a repeat of the last one. 

Grass rustled as Iacovos turned his head to look at Crowley. “What about you?”

They kept their eyes trained on the sky so he couldn’t see them. “What about me?”

“Still not the marrying type?”

“Nah.” 

Iacovos was silent for a moment before speaking again. “Have you… you know.”

“I don’t know.”

“Fallen in love?”

“Yeah.” Crowley swallowed. “Still am. Bit pissed off about it, really.”

“Pissed off?”

“It’s not a good situation. Probably the worst possible person for me to fall in love with.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.”

He was quiet again. 

Crowley watched a meteor streak by, burning against the darkness of the night. Their throat was tight, but Iacovos would notice if they swallowed again. 

“What’s he like?”

They hissed. Terrible choice of conversation, really. “Erm. He’s brilliant. Reads loads. And… infuriatingly kind, honestly. And gorgeous, y’know.”

“How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”

“Ages. But it’s fine. I’m trying to get over it.” Still. They were thinking it wasn’t possible, considering they’d been trying for almost eight hundred years now. 

“Hmm. Good luck.”

Crowley made a noise halfway between a scoff and a laugh and lifted their head from their arms so they could use one hand to wipe their eye. “Thanks.”


	377. 246 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

_246 BC. Jerusalem, Seleucid Empire, Canaan_.

Aziraphale walked up to the counter of his favorite grocer, who had just finished serving another customer. “Hello, Kelita.”

“Aziraphale!” Kelita smiled broadly. “How are you? I haven’t seen you in a few weeks.”

“Ah, I suppose not.” He’d been doing a bit of intensive guidance before his reports were due, and eating had for the most part slipped his mind. “Is your family well?”

“Very well. Huldah is pregnant again, and Melea will be bar mitzvah soon.”

“How lovely.” Aziraphale looked over the assortment of pastries in Kelita’s display. They looked quite good today—though perhaps he merely thought so because he hadn’t eaten properly in almost a month. “What would you recommend today?”

Kelita pointed to a round, golden brown pastry which appeared to be slathered in honey. “Those are good. Goat cheese filling with chopped nuts and honey.”

“That sounds scrummy.” He glanced over a few more, then looked at Kelita again. “Three of those, please.” He pulled out his cloth and laid it on the counter.

Kelita picked up each pastry carefully and placed them in the cloth. “Do you have plans for shabbat this week?”

“Not as such, no.” He’d been celebrating on his own for the most part since returning to Jerusalem. It took some time for him to reenter the community after so long away—his accent had been a bit funny. And he looked shaven at first glance, which didn’t help, even though really he just didn’t grow a beard.

Kelita finished wrapping the pastries and held them out. “Well, if you’d like, we’d love to have you.”

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale took the parcel. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“You wouldn’t be. Huldah is staying home more these days, and she wants to see you again.”

“I suppose I’ll come, then.” He paused, counting out payment, and passed the coins over. “Should I bring wine?”

“That would be wonderful.”

“Excellent.” He smiled. “I will see you on Friday, then.”

“It’s good to see you again, Aziraphale.”

“Likewise. And thank you very much for the pastries.”


	378. 243 BC - Derinkuyu, Anatolia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for illness and referenced minor character death.

_243 BC. Derinkuyu, Seleucid Empire, Anatolia_. 

Crowley stopped in the doorway of Iacovos’s bedroom. It didn’t really seem the right place for them to be. Made their skin all prickly. They weren’t quite sure why—could’ve been anything from blessings on the room to the scent of human illness—but it did.

“Is that you?” Iacovos’s voice was all crackly now. 

“Maybe. Depends what you mean by ‘you.’”

He laughed. “Only Crowley would waver in the doorway like that.”

They scoffed, but walked to the bedside. “I don’t waver. I _loom_.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. Fantastic loomer, me. Lurking’s not so easy, but I’ve got looming down-pat. Ask anybody.” 

They didn’t look at him, but they could feel his eyes on them anyway.

“Where are you going next?”

“Who knows. Might hang around a bit.” They shrugged. “I hear Athens has been up to some stuff.”

They looked at him just in time to see him make a theatrical expression of disgust.

“You’re an insufferable patriot,” Crowley said. “You know that, right? I haven’t heard of anybody else who hates Athens that much.”

“It’s overrated is all I’m saying.”

“You’ve visited _once_.” They smiled, but it didn’t feel quite right. Sad, maybe? Blasted body. “I just want to see how they’re getting on out there. It’s been ages since I visited.”

“How long?”

“Oh, you know.” A thousand years, give or take, but who was counting? “Time.”

“You always did have more of that than us.”

“Occupational hazard.”

Iacovos smiled weakly, then fell into silence for a bit.

Crowley fidgeted, eyes darting around the room. There was a little drawing of Rachil in one corner. She’d died a year earlier. Averyamis was dead, too. Humans just kept doing that. Probably came of Crowley failing to get a move on.

“Is your angel in Athens?”

Crowley flinched, their throat closing on cue. Bloody heart, with its bloody feelings. They cleared their throat. “Don’t think so.”

Aziraphale was probably in Jerusalem, or something. Maybe Alexandria. They’d heard they had lots of scholarly types there. Which Aziraphale was, more or less. 

“You should talk to him,” Iacovos said gently.

Crowley scoffed and looked away. “Heaven, no.”

“It’s not going to get better if you don’t do something about it.”

“There’s no way for it to get ‘better,’” Crowley snapped.

Iacovos just watched them patiently. 

Shit. The man was dying, and they were caught up in their head. “Sorry. I just…”

“You don’t need to apologize.” He held out a hand and took Crowley’s, his fingers papery and cold. “Just… think about it.”

They looked at him, and their eyes met through the veil, though only Crowley could tell. “I… can’t.”

Iacovos made a sympathetic noise and let go of their hand. “I’m sorry.”

“’S fine.” Their throat was closing up. 

“Why don’t you sit down? I’d like to catch up before I go.”

“Yeah. Okay.”


	379. 227 BC - Athens, Greece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied/referenced torture.

_227 BC. Athens, Greece_. 

Crowley wandered through the agora, looking over the different wares and foodstuffs. Athens was bigger than last time they’d visited. The humans had got a bit more grandiose with their architecture since then, too. Great big marble things, all over the place. 

It wasn’t as friendly, either. They’d arrived in feminine dress and been driven out of the agora. That was… unpleasant, if not unfamiliar.

Now, though, they were in masculine dress, which seemed to be working out all right. It didn’t really matter if half the humans were giving them sideways glances so long as no one actually took issue with them.

They stood out a bit here. Their clothes were all wrong, for one. Crowley hadn’t bothered changing them before they knew what they were meant to look like, and black wasn’t the most common color. Plus, they looked foreign. Somewhere between Anatolian and vaguely Mesopotamian.

A human bumped into them and snapped, talking quickly and angrily in Greek before throwing his hands up at Crowley in disgust when they didn’t respond. He stormed away.

And that was the other thing—turned out their Greek was rusty after 950 years away.

Though really, it wasn’t their fault. They still remembered how to speak Greek, but these people spoke different Greek. Crowley could make it out if the humans spoke slowly, but not really otherwise. 

Still. They were confident they’d get it eventually, and in the meantime, they just had to hang around people who spoke one of the same languages as them. 

Part of them thought it would be easier to just go someplace they already spoke the language. But they had a hunch Aziraphale was somewhere in that general area, and they weren’t ready to face him yet. 

It wasn’t that they were scared. Demons didn’t do scared. Just… they didn’t think it was wise to see him just yet. They might not be able to change that they were in love with him, but they sure as Heaven weren’t going to let _him_ know that if they could help it.

Really, they shouldn’t let anyone know. They were just having a terrible time of that. Humans were too bloody perceptive… though at least they died.

One good thing about everyone else they interacted with dying.

Point was, if Heaven, Hell, or Aziraphale found out Crowley was in love with him, there’d be Heaven to pay. Or Hell. Literally. So they’d just keep avoiding him. Even if it wasn’t going to go away, it was better than the alternative.


	380. 216 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to antisemitism and attempted genocide.

_216 BC. Jerusalem, Ptolemaic Kingdom, Canaan._

Aziraphale finished his latest report with a sigh. He’d finally talked Daliel, the Angel who’d come to assist him in his most recent assignment, into returning to Heaven. It had been helpful to have assistance, but he was finding that being alone on Earth suited him best.

Most of the Jewish inhabitants of Jerusalem were back by now, so he was likely safe to leave his house. He’d hurried a bit faster than humans could generally walk, and been waiting while they trickled back into the city.

He’d had an absolutely horrid year. The Seleucids had been bad already, and he’d thought when Ptolemy took over the city that perhaps they might have a bit of respite. He’d been rather mistaken, though, since Ptolemy immediately took it upon himself to be as much of a nuisance as possible.

Aziraphale hadn’t had this much work mandated by Heaven in millenia! First, he had to make sure they didn’t get into the Temple, then he’d had to avert all Ptolemy’s attempts to have them executed. It was utterly barbaric, really. 

He’d tried to avert the execution by less drastic methods, of course. He thought that causing the fellow to oversleep was quite clever. But it was to no avail, and then the elephants were headed for the hippodrome, and Daliel appeared, and there’d really been no alternative at that point but to adopt his true form and frighten the elephants and Ptolmaics into civility.

At least he hadn’t revealed his human identity as an Angel. He wasn’t sure how he would have dealt with that short of leaving the Ptolmaic Kingdom entirely.

Now, the whole dreadful business was over and done with, and they could all go back to their lives. 

The ink on his report was finally dry, so he snapped his fingers to transport it up to Heaven, and stood. His movements were a bit stiff. How long had he been writing, really?

Well, at least it was light outside—he had a mind to peep in on Kelita’s family shop. He knew they were all right, thankfully, unless something had happened on their long journey back from Alexandria. But it still seemed prudent to double check. 

And indulging in some pastries couldn’t hurt, either. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based on 3 Maccabees. Researching this scene, I also learned fascinating things such as the fact that there exists a Wikipedia page entitled ‘Execution by Elephant.’ It’s quite graphic.


	381. 208 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for referenced antisemitism.

_208 BC. Jerusalem, Ptolemaic Kingdom, Canaan._

Aziraphale glanced both ways down the road, then hurried across. It was late afternoon, the sun glowing golden over the rooftops of Jerusalem, and he would be late soon if he didn’t hurry. 

Thankfully, Kelita’s family home wasn’t terribly far away, and he arrived before too long. 

Kelita’s grandson, a strapping young man named Jared, opened the door. “Who’s there?”

“Aziraphale,” said Aziraphale. “Might I come in?”

Jared opened the door the rest of the way and motioned for him to enter.

Most of Kelita’s family was present, though the women were in the kitchen. Aziraphale greeted Kelita politely where he was sitting with the children. “Hello.”

Kelita looked up, and he smiled broadly. “Aziraphale! I’m glad you could make it.”

“As am I. Does Huldah need assistance?”

“Huldah is sleeping, but Zillah and the other women are in the kitchen.” He looked back at the game with the children, which seemed to involve a number of wood figures in the likeness of various livestock.

“Ah, I see.” Aziraphale attempted to smile. “I’ll go see if I can lend a hand.”

Kelita waved distractedly, then made a loud sheep noise as he walked a doll across the floor toward one of the children.

How people seemed to adopt an entirely different manner with children, Aziraphale might never know. 

In the kitchen, Zillah was directing four other women in the preparation of food and challah. There appeared to be a large pot of lentils and meat, as well as a vegetable dish, each of which were being watched over by one of the family. Two other women were overseeing challah, one braiding and glazing while the other took baked loaves out of the oven.

Aziraphale cleared his throat.

Zillah turned, appearing confused for a moment before she recognized him. “Aziraphale! I’m glad to see you. Could you pour the wine?”

He hastened off to his task, and the next after that, and the one after that. As the sun dipped toward its final descent below the horizon, he closed the windows to protect them from prying eyes. They’d begun taking care not to appear too obviously devout of late, after what happened with Ptolemy eight years ago.

With the windows closed, the whole family gathered around to say the prayers as Zillah lit the candles. After the wine and challah had been blessed as well, they were able to tuck in. 

Aziraphale had begun attending Kelita’s Shabbat dinners almost exclusively a few decades earlier. As bakers, they had some of the best challah he’d had the opportunity to sample. And after long enough, his presence was just… taken as a matter of course.

It was quite a lovely feeling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caught up for the time being! I may or may not keep it up now-- my internet has been weird lately.
> 
> And just to say again, I have a tumblr now, which is @elderly-worm. I haven't posted anything yet, but it's been a long time coming.


	382. 199 BC - Athens, Greece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to murder and sexism.

_199 BC. Athens, Greece_. 

Crowley wandered through the crowd at a party, holding a cup of wine in one hand. They’d finally relearned Greek enough to be integrated into upper echelons of society. It was… fine. After so many times playing chummy with nobility, it was starting to lose its appeal. Still, it was easier to tempt people at leisure than at work, and the rich had a lot more leisure time. 

There weren’t many good candidates for temptations tonight. Lots of older men. No women, which was still unnerving as Heaven. Older humans were generally harder to tempt.

In one corner, though, there was a group of young men who looked a bit drunk. That would work well enough.

Crowley wandered over to stand at the boundary of their little circle.

The conversation trailed off and one of them, a stout, muscular man with fashionably styled hair, raised an eyebrow at him. “Who’re you?”

“Name’s Kroles.” They aimed for a friendly expression. “I’m new, just looking for some decent conversation.”

“I’m Hypatos,” said the first speaker. “These are Archippos, Kleisthenes, and Epaphroditos.”

The others smiled and nodded. Epaphroditos waved halfheartedly.

“What were you talking about?” Crowley asked.

“Archippos said he heard an alternate version of the story of King Theseus.”

Crowley raised their eyebrows, carefully controlling their reaction. “Oh?” They hadn’t realized people remembered King Theseus. Crowley did, of course. Mostly that moment before he toppled over the cliff, and Lycomedes’s scream of grief after.

“Don’t make me tell it again,” said Archippos, who was a lanky man with light brown hair. 

Hypatos sighed dramatically. “I suppose I’ll have to do it then.”

“Oh, not again,” Kleisthenes groaned.

So it was difficult to hear? Crowley moved in closer. “Let’s hear it.”

“Well,” said Hypatos with the air of one who was very pleased to have a captivated audience, “Archippos here heard someone say that Lycomedes didn’t kill Theseus.”

There was silence for a moment. The other four people were watching Crowley. Were they meant to say something? “And?”

“That Lycomedes _didn’t_ kill King Theseus,” Hypatos repeated. “Come on.”

“He didn’t,” said Crowley blankly. 

Hypatos’s eyes widened. “Wait. You really believe that?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” They looked between the other humans. “Come on. They were lovers. Why else would Theseus have gone to Skyros when he was forced out of here?”

“Oh my gods.” Hypatos laughed incredulously. “You really believe that. Who taught you history?”

Crowley blinked. They knew how this worked. They were there. Heaven, if you wanted to dredge it up, they knew Lycomedes didn’t kill Theseus because _they_ killed him. But of course they couldn’t very well say that. “Er… my dad?”

“I can’t believe you think they were lovers,” said Hypatos. 

Epaphroditos frowned. “It’s not Kroles’s fault.”

“It’s fucking hilarious, though.”

“You don’t have to be mean about it.”

Hypatos shrugged. “I thought we were debating?”

Huh. Right. Debating. Hardly counted as a debate when one person was objectively right but the other had public consensus on their side, did it? Either way you looked at it. But, it could be helpful if they could ingratiate themself with this group… “’Course. Just a bit of fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hypatos is named after Hypatia because she was neat. Even though Hypatia won’t be for another few centuries. Because I said so.


	383. 188 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to homophobia.

_188 BC. Jerusalem, Seleucid Empire, Canaan._

Aziraphale settled into a chair in his house with a bowl of stew and sighed. He’d just finished a long day of guidance, helping a young man to make the most virtuous choice of career. With that done, he was ready for some well-earned rest.

Then a knock sounded at the door.

He scowled. “I am not at home.”

There was a scuffing noise, then someone spoke. “You just talked to us.”

“I’m afraid you must be mistaken.” He lifted a spoonful of stew from his bowl and ate it.

“I— what?”

“They did say he was grouchy,” a second voice put in. 

The cheek of some people, honestly. Aziraphale set his bowl down with a huff, brushed off his robes, and stomped to the door. He yanked it open. “How may I help you people?”

Two people stood outside. They held hands, and both wore clothing popular among Jewish men of their age. They exchanged a glance.

“Are you Aziraphale?” This was the first speaker’s voice. His fingers were stained with ink, and his complexion was a tad darker than that of his companion.

“Unfortunately.” Aziraphale tried to temper his emotional reaction. It was hardly their fault they were inconsiderate of other peoples’ time. 

The second man looked at the first. “Maybe we should come back later. They said he was nice.”

“I _am_ nice,” said Aziraphale waspishly.

The men exchanged a glance again.

Drat. 

He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. “How may I help you?”

“It’s not the sort of thing we’d like to say out here,” said the first uncertainly.

Aziraphale humphed, but stood to the side. “Come in, then. Would you like something to eat? I was just settling in for dinner.”

“Sure…”

He directed them to the table and conjured up bowls for them, then used another miracle to make sure there was enough stew and bread for all of them. With that served, he sat down. 

After a few minutes eating, he put his spoon down and dabbed at the corners of his mouth before fixing the men with a stare. “Now then. What, may I ask, has compelled you to seek me out at this hour?”

“It’s mid-afternoon,” said the one with the ink-stained fingers.

“Is that so.” Aziraphale ripped a piece of bread energetically and bit into it.

The men were silent for another moment. Then the second put down his spoon. “We hear you were more, er… friendly to men who love other men. Than some.”

Aziraphale swallowed. He kept forgetting that such things had gone out of fashion. “I am, yes.”

Both of the men exhaled in apparent relief. 

He looked between them. “Was there any particular question you had?”

“We just… wanted to meet more people like us,” said the first. “I’m Jehoshua. This is Machbanai. Someone said you know most of us in Jerusalem.”

“Perhaps.” He looked up toward the ceiling, running through the list of humans in his head. “I know two dozen, I believe? Quite possibly fewer. They keep dying.”

Machbanai’s eyes widened.

Oh dear, he’d frightened them. This was why he tried not to interact with humans when he’d just finished a guidance. “Of old age, I assure you. Well, except Paltiel, but he was ill.”

“Can you introduce us?”

“I suppose so, but not this evening. Perhaps—”

“It’s midday.”

Aziraphale gave Machbanai a stern look. “I will thank you not to correct me. Now, as I was saying, perhaps if you come back tomorrow or after Shabbat, we can take a turn about town and I’ll introduce you. How does that suit?”

“It’s literally the—”

Jehoshua gave Machabanai a look and he stopped. Then Jehoshua looked at Aziraphale. “Well, thank you. Also, this stew is excellent. Where did you learn to cook?”

“Ur.” Aziraphale picked up his spoon again. “Now, how did you two meet?” 

Machabanai launched into a story which had something to do with a lion, and Aziraphale settled in to listen. Perhaps he would bless them when they left, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I checked again on how gay rights were doing around 200 BC and it looks as though Leviticus may have been written by this point in time, so we’ll sadly have to deal with more homophobia from here on out. Alas…


	384. 180 BC - Athens, Greece

_180 BC. Athens, Greece_. 

Crowley brushed the pad of their thumb over the wrinkle they’d just chiselled into marble. They were taking up sculpting again, to use the time between temptations. Wasn’t half bad as a tool for tempting, either. Vanity and lust and all that.

The statue was nearly done now. They were just getting details done before they polished it. 

Technically, they should destroy it. Couldn’t really bring themself to, though.

Crowley stepped back from the statue. They’d been commissioned to do a statue of some god or other. The Greeks had too bloody many of them for anyone to be expected to keep track. But this one had wings, supposedly, and well… they’d given Crowley too much blessed creative license. Which was why Aziraphale was smiling at them out of the marble, wings spread.

There was a noise in the antechamber of Crowley’s workshop, and they grabbed for a sheet to pull over the statue before the human entered.

Crowley turned to face the doorway, hiding their chisel behind their back. “Hypatos,” they said in their most winning tone of voice. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the neighbourhood.” Hypatos looked at the sculpture and cocked his head. “What’s that, then?”

“Just an, er, a statue. Yeah.”

“I can see that.” He stepped closer. “Does it have wings?”

“Yeah. ’S a. One of your gods. Er, the gods. Definitely one of the gods.”

Hypatos raised his eyebrows. “One of the gods. Really.”

“Yup.”

“Huh. Which one?”

“Er. The, er. The winged one.” Should’ve remembered the bloody name. Why the fuck hadn’t they bothered to remember the name? What kind of—

Hypatos yanked the sheet off, and Crowley made an undignified noise trying to grab hold of it so it would stay, but it fluttered out of reach.

The sheet dropped to the floor among the marble shavings. Crowley groaned.

“Is this… supposed to be Eros?”

“Er, that’s the one, yeah. Bloke with the candle wax, right? But not the one who flew into the sun.”

Hypatos stepped closer, squinting at the statue. Then he shrugged and stepped back. “You know Eros is meant to be young, right?”

Shit. Was he? Crowley crossed their arms. “The person commissioning it wanted the most beautiful man I knew how to sculpt.”

“ _That’s_ the most beautiful man you know how to sculpt?”

Crowley scowled. “Yeah, it is. I mean… you know.” They gestured at everything. 

It was Aziraphale, more or less. He was unfairly attractive. After all, Crowley had it on good confidence that a round, muscular man-shaped being was well-regarded. And Aziraphale was a particularly good example of that description. His arms, for a start, and the way the wrinkles around his eyes—

“Kroles, who is it?”

Crowley flinched. “Nobody. Just came up with it on the fly. Y’know. Bunch of split-second decisions.”

“Yeah, right.”

They groaned, scrubbing their hands over their face. “Look, it’s… you can’t tell anybody, all right? Seriously. I can make your life really unpleasant, believe me.”

“You’re really far gone, aren’t you?”

Ugh. “Yeah.” 

“Who is it, then?”

“My angel,” said Crowley before they could stop the words. It was just as well. Saying ‘Aziraphale’ was worse if word got out. Would hurt him, too, not just them.

“Your _angel_?” 

“Shut up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The myth Crowley is referencing a story perhaps better known as ‘Cupid and Psyche.’ If I recall correctly, one version has Psyche, who’s married Cupid/Eros, be told not to look at him. Naturally, she lights a candle while he’s asleep in their, is shocked by how gorgeous he is (as I think gods of love and sex are wont to be), and spills candle wax on him. He wakes up, sees her, and she gets in trouble. Shenanigans ensue. 
> 
> I _think_ regular updates will resume tomorrow. :)


	385. 166 BC - Beth-Horon, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied/referenced antisemitism and discussion of war.

_166 BC. Beth-Horon, Canaan._

Aziraphale looked up from his scrolls to see Nahath, one of Kelita’s great-grandchildren, enter the room. He pushed the scroll to the side and set his stylus down deliberately. “All well, I hope?”

“There are more Seleucid forces approaching.” 

“Oh, dear.”

Nahath collapsed into the chair opposite Aziraphale, exhaling heavily. “We have until daybreak before we have to assemble, so we can get some sleep.”

“How comforting.” Aziraphale unfurled the scroll again, peering at it in the candlelight. If there was no immediate danger and nothing he could do, he saw no sense in dilly-dallying to fret about it. 

“Will you be joining us for the battle this time?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and made a note on his own scroll. “I believe it’s in everyone’s best interests if I don’t.”

Nahath chuckled. “Your sense of humour hasn’t got any less weird.”

“I don’t labor under the illusion that it has.”

“Right.” Nahath sniffed, slouching lower in his chair. “Will you sleep?”

He ran a finger over the scroll, mouthing the letters, then made another note before responding. “Perhaps.”

“You have to sleep eventually. If we’re found, there’s a decent chance we’ll be on the run tomorrow night.”

“And that is a risk I have accepted.”

“If you say so.” Nahath yawned.

Aziraphale looked up at that and leaned forward to look at him better. “My dear boy, you look rather tired.”

“I’m not a boy anymore, Aziraphale.”

“Be that as it may, I believe you are the one between us who is in need of sleep.”

Nahath grimaced. “I know. I have to tell the commander the news if he comes by, though. He’s in a meeting now.”

“What is the news, exactly? I can tell him.”

“A few things. Er… well, their leader is Seron. There are about four thousand men.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Four thousand?”

Nahath nodded grimly.

He sat back in his chair, one hand on his chest. “Gracious.”

“Judah Maccabee thinks we can do it.”

“I do hope so.” He exhaled. It would all turn out in the end. Divine Plan and all. Still, that didn’t make it any less worrying in the moment.

Nahath was silent for a moment before speaking again. “You’ll tell him?”

“Of course. Yes, quite.” Aziraphale attempted to smile. “To bed, then. Off you pop. Best be well rested before you go off to battle again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s the Maccabean Revolt, folks! I was originally scheduled to write this during Hanukkah and would have posted it as a seasonal thing, but I ended up a few days behind such that it wasn’t written until after Hanukkah was over, alas.


	386. 164 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of alcohol use.

_164 BC. Jerusalem, Judea, Canaan._

My dear,

I must confess, I’m not entirely sure how I came to be doing this again. I believe it has something to do with my inebriation and the ~~konvi~~ ~~cnvvl~~ friendly attitude of the locals. I’m sure you hardly think of me these days. You’ve made yourself quite clear on that count.

Do you know, it’s been nearly nine hundred years since I saw you? I don’t like it. We may be immortal, but I have it on good authority that you are still on Earth. It’s awfully rude of you to avoid me like this. I insist you come back at once.

Drat, I just remembered that I haven’t the faintest where you might be. 

Have you been to Jerusalem yet? Or ever? It’s quite the city. And the temple’s back! Not that you’d care. You were probably pleased to see it desecrated. 

No, that’s rather rude of me. 

My point is, it is back. All dedicated and everything. There was a to-do about it. That’s why I have all this wine here. Nahath insisted I take some. In celebration of the miracle, you know. I could hardly explain that I had performed the miracle myself, could I? Of course I couldn’t. And you understand that.

Where was I? 

Oh, yes. The miracle. How was I meant to know how much oil it took to light the lamp? It seemed perfectly reasonable at the time for one bottle to burn that long. After all, oil has always been obliging for me in the past. 

At least it turned out. I’ve a commendation. It’s all rather lovely.

So, Judah is a kingdom again. Though they aren’t calling it Judah these days. It’s Judea, now. I couldn’t possibly explain why in my current state. It’s an ~~etylogi~~ ~~entomolo~~ a thing to do with how the words go together as time goes on. 

You know, I saw a rather thin human yesterday. Spindly, one might say. Barely there. It was the most peculiar sensation. I’m sure a clever chap such as yourself can sort out why. 

I really ought to sober up. You would tell me to, you know. I’m in a disarray. _Dishabille_ , one might say. Disarray? No, I said that already. 

Sobering up, now. I imagine I will be rather more coherent after.*

(* Aziraphale was more coherent after sobering up. He also destroyed the letter.)


	387. 147 BC - Athens, Greece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for use of alcohol as a coping mechanism, and implied/referenced murder and torture.

_147 BC. Athens, Greece._

Crowley threw themself over the arm of the chair in Hypatos’s house. The wine in their cup threatened to slosh out, but they glared at it and it didn’t. 

“You’re still very sprightly,” observed Hypatos from his seat opposite.

Crowley shrugged, taking a sip of the wine. “Runs in my family. My mum lived to be a hundred and thirty.”

“Did she really.”

“Sure she did.” They stretched out, then relaxed, one leg hanging over the arm of the chair, then turned their head to look at him. “How’re you, then?”

Hypatos shrugged. “All right, I suppose.”

They raised their eyebrows over their veil, taking another sip of wine. “Yeah?”

“I’m getting old.” He paused, tilting his head. “You aren’t.”

Bloody hell. That’s what they got sticking around so long, though. “No.” They raised their cup to take another sip.

“Are you a god?”

Crowley choked on their wine and started coughing. Their throat burned, and by the time they managed to stop, their eyes were watering. They wiped them under the veil, setting their cup aside.

“Not a god, then,” Hypatos concluded.

“Yeah, no. Definitely not.”

“Demigod?”

“Nope.”

“A nymph?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow and gestured to themself. “Do I _look_ like a nymph?”

Hypatos shrugged. “Maybe.”

“’M not a nymph.”

“What, then?”

“Another thing,” said Crowley vaguely. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Is your angel the same thing?”

“Ehh…” They let their head fall back, staring at the ceiling. “Sort of. Not properly. He’s… he’s like me, but better. Y’know? All aetherial and holy and that.”

They could hear Hypatos shifting in his seat before he spoke again. “So he doesn’t age either?”

“Nope.” Crowley flipped their veil back so it wouldn’t tickle their face anymore. Hypatos couldn’t see their eyes as long as they looked at the ceiling. “We’re just here forever. And ever and ever. Bloody… eternity. Y’know? Or until Armageddon, anyway.”

“Where is he?”

“Dunno! Babylon, last I saw… ages ago, now.” They sniffed. “Probably someplace near the Seleucid Empire. He likes it ’round there. Especially with the godly people down there.”

“The godly people?”

“You know the ones,” said Crowley, despite the fact that they knew Hypatos didn’t.

When Hypatos didn’t speak for a bit, they flipped their veil back over their eyes and sat up, propping their elbow on the arm of the chair. They took a drink of wine and looked him over briefly, then let their eyes wander over the room. Brooding humans were boring to watch.

“You should go see him,” said Hypatos finally.

Crowley scoffed. “Why would I do that.”

“You love him.”

“So?”

“Isn’t it wearing on you, not seeing him?”

They froze. 

Was it? Sure, they thought about him all the time, but that was hardly a problem. Probably. And it might be better than seeing him…

“Nah,” they finally managed, then took a hurried gulp of wine.

“How long has it been?”

They lowered the cup. “Er…”

“How long?”

“Nine.”

“Nine years?”

“Nine hundred years. Give or take.”

Hypatos gaped at them for a moment, eyes wide. “Kroles!”

“What?”

“You’re nine hundred years old?”

Crowley snorted. “Sure.”

There was silence for a moment.

“You’re older than nine hundred, aren’t you?”

They looked away. “Yup.” 

“You have to go talk to him, Kroles.”

They hissed. “I can’t.”

“Really?”

“Ehh.” Technically, they could… “I _shouldn’t_.”

“Promise me you’ll see him after I die.”

Crowley grimaced. “That’s barely any time.”

Hypatos leaned forward. “Kroles. I am seventy-six years old. I’ve been married fifty. And I am telling you to talk to your angel.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You made a sculpture of him!”

They dragged a hand over their face. “I told you not to bring that up.”

“You’re a mess, Kroles. And you won’t get any better if you don’t go find him and tell him how you feel.”

Crowley flinched, suddenly cold all over. “I can’t tell him.”

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated.” They paused. “We’d be killed, or worse.”

Hypatos frowned. “That’s… intense.”

“Tell me about it.” They spun their cup between their fingers, watching the wine shift and reflect the candle light. “I can go see him, though.”

Hypatos nodded. “That will do.” He paused, then pointed a finger at Crowley. “Within a week of my funeral, you’d better be on the road. You hear me?”

“I hear you,” said Crowley grudgingly, then took a drink of wine. 

Why did they have to be so bloody _nice_?


	388. 135 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to alcohol.

_135 BC. Jerusalem, Judea, Canaan_. 

Crowley hesitated outside the city gates. She’d been walking a while now, and her feet ached from it. But, well… she’d promised Hypatos, hadn’t she? And keeping deals was one thing Demons were meant to do. Sometimes, anyway. 

Aziraphale was in there. She could sense him. It was strange, after all this time. It had taken her a few months to track him down, too. But now she was here, a part of her wanted to go find him right away. Just get it over with. 

Probably shouldn’t do that, though. Wouldn’t want to come off as too eager.

She headed for the gates, where a guard waved her through.* Inside, the city was full of people. Which made sense, it being a city. Cities were like that. She knew that. Had done since Uruk.

(* Had Crowley been any other sort of being dressed as a woman in a veil, the guard would have stopped her. However, since the guard believed in the God who Created Crowley, her expectation that the guard would let her through won out. Being a Demon was handy like that sometimes.)

Satan, she was a mess.

Maybe she shouldn’t find Aziraphale right away. Take some time to acclimate to his presence. And vice versa. After all, she didn’t even know he’d want to see her. Nine hundred years was a long time. He could’ve changed his mind.

It would make sense, really. With all these faithful humans around, he’d probably see past her veneer of respectability and reject her for what she really was: a Demon in love with an Angel, and all the more useless for it. 

She seemed to have reached the market. It seemed unusually busy. Or maybe it was just too small for all the humans in the city? 

Crowley strolled up to a stall selling amphorae of wine. “Hey, kid,” she said in her best Hebrew. “Why’s the market like this?”

“It’s Friday,” said the kid, as though that made it clear.

“Right. And that means…”

“Everyone’s making sure they have what they need for Shabbat.” 

“Right. ’Course, sorry, yeah. I forgot about that. Erm.”

The vendor rolled their eyes. “Are you going to buy something?”

“Er, yeah.” Crowley rummaged in her pocket. “Shit, I’ve only got Athenian change. ’S all good silver, though.”

The vendor crossed their arms. “You’ll have to pay double.”

Crowley picked out an amphora and was about to pay them when a tingle ran down her spine. Aziraphale was getting closer.

She straightened up, the amphora still under her arm, and all but threw the coins at the vendor. Then she started running, weaving through the crowd, trying to find someplace to hide.

They might have made a promise to Hypatos, but that didn’t mean she was ready to face her angel. 


	389. 134 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

_134 BC. Jerusalem, Judea, Canaan_.

Aziraphale glanced both ways down the street. It was odd, doing this again for so long. But it had to be done. He couldn’t very well allow Crawly to avoid him forever.

So he rapped on the door and clasped his hands behind his back, waiting. 

He’d sensed Crawly in the city a few months earlier. At first he’d thought they would surely seek him out after nine hundred years apart, but he’d clearly been mistaken. So he was taking matters into his own hands.

The door creaked open, revealing a black-veiled face. And, oh, goodness, it really was Crawly. Even if he couldn’t see their eyes, he would recognize that face anywhere. The cheekbones, the lips, the chin—the very particular way they held their eyebrows. 

“Hello,” said Aziraphale. “Do let me in.”

“Angel.”

“How perceptive. Let me in, Crawly, or I shall become cross.”

Crawly stepped aside, and he strode into the room. It was small, and sparsely furnished. There was a short, marble, Greek-style bust of an older man he didn’t recognize sitting on the floor. 

He rounded on Crawly, who had closed the door and appeared to be trying to make themself as small as possible. Their clothes were in the local style for fashionable women, but their hair was styled like a Greek. 

“Is everything—y’know, all right?” They spoke Hebrew with a touch of a Greek accent. Or perhaps northern. It didn’t sound native, at any rate.

“Absolutely splendid. Tip-top.” He wasn’t entirely sure what emotion he was feeling right now. It was somewhere in his chest, radiating out and making the air around them crackle. Somewhere between hurt and divine wrath, perhaps. “What exactly have you been doing for nine hundred years?”

Crawly’s arms were crossed over their chest. “I, er… lots of things. Went to Mu. Did you know Cain’s kids ended up in the middle of the ocean? Sure surprised me. And they think sheep are bad luck. And their writing—”

“Why are you back?”

Their mouth clicked shut. Aziraphale could imagine their eyes, wide under their veil. 

“I… I guess it had been long enough?”

“Nine _hundred_ years!”

“I know.”

“You told me you were going to sleep for a few decades, Crawly. And then you were gone, and you never came back.” Aziraphale pursed his lips. “It’s odious.”

Crawly frowned, lips forming the word ‘odious’ before they shook their head. “Look, angel—”

“Aziraphale.”

They flinched.

Oh dear. That had been rather much, hadn’t it? 

The room was silent. Aziraphale could hear humans moving around outside. 

Crawly’s arms were crossed, shoulders hunched forward. They looked miserable.

Aziraphale swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “That was harsh.”

“’S all right.”

“It’s not.”

They exhaled slowly, then reached up and removed their veil, slowly making eye contact. Their eyes were yellow all the way around, and they looked sad.

Aziraphale swallowed hard before speaking again. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I was… I thought a lot of things, when you’d gone.”

“I had shit to work out,” said Crawly, voice thready. “Stuff I couldn’t do around you.”

“Around… me?”

“Yeah. Demon stuff. Don’t worry about it.”

There was silence for another moment.

What ‘Demon stuff’ could have occupied them for nine hundred years? Though perhaps it was better if he didn’t know. 

“How are you going about like that?” Aziraphale asked finally.

“Like what?”

“You know. With the veil.”

“Oh.” They looked down at the veil where they’d been twisting it between their hands. “Er, I dunno. People don’t mention it around here. ’S nice, being able to be a woman again. And dress for it.”

“I’m sure.”

Silence again.

“I didn’t mean, to… y’know. I just left. Panicked.”

“I’m sure you didn’t intend it,” Aziraphale said carefully. “But I think, perhaps, it would be for the best if you let me alone.”

Crawly’s expression went stricken.

“Not for long. A few years, perhaps. To adjust.”

“Right.” Crawly nodded, the movement jerky. Her knuckles were white around the veil. She was paler than she’d been when he saw her last.

“I’ll be going, then.”

Crawly stepped away from the door. 

He walked toward it and laid his hand on the latch, then looked back at her. She was watching him, eyes wide. 

There was a tight feeling in his chest. He licked his lips. “I… hope it isn’t too much trouble.”

“It’s fine.”

“I see.” He looked to the door, then back again. “I’ll ‘see you around’? Is that it?”

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Yeah. See you around, angel.”

He ducked his head and unlatched the door hurriedly, then stepped out and hurried off. Crawly’s voice ricocheted around his head, repeating itself, making his throat tight. 

_Angel_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, they are together again. :)


	390. 118 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

_118 BC. Jerusalem, Judea, Canaan_. 

“ _Hey, Aziraphale_.

“ _I know you didn’t want to hear from me. It’s been sixteen years, so, y’know. I’m hoping. But you can tell me to piss off if you want. Or just don’t respond. That works too_.

“ _Anyway, the reason I’m sending this is ’cause I found some predictions for the next couple of centuries. Seems like a load of bollocks to me, but the bloke selling them seemed convinced. Should be interesting seeing how things turn out_. 

“ _I’m not going to sign this. You know why not. ~~You’re smart like that.~~ But I bet you know who it is_.

“ _’Course you do. Who else would write you in a Sumerian dialect from more than two millennia ago_. 

“ _Sorry again about… everything. See you around_.” 

***

Crowley paced in the street outside Aziraphale’s shop. He wasn’t in right now, which was how she was still here. Probably out doing blessings or something. Being virtuous.

She was still holding the scrolls. She should put them down. They were already dented from her squeezing them too long. But she couldn’t, somehow. She didn’t want to scare him off. He’d said to leave him alone. 

Of course, that was sixteen years ago, but after nine hundred that was just change. 

“Come on, Crowley,” she muttered. “You just have to… put it down. On the doorstep. It’s not that hard.”

She paused in front of the door and took one step toward it, then turned away. 

Couldn’t do it! 

The sensation of divinity washed over her, and she spun to see Aziraphale standing in front of his shop, hands clasped behind his back. He looked perfectly normal in most respects, except for an expression of such precise blankness it was almost certainly studied.

“Sorry,” she blurted. “I just, er. Came to give you these. I know you don’t want to talk to me, so I’ll just go, but, er, yeah. Here.” She held out the scrolls.

He looked at the scrolls, then up at her. “Go on, then.”

She frowned, mouth opening to ask what she was meant to go on with, until he gestured to the doorstep and averted his eyes.

Crowley stopped breathing. He looked… fuck. She couldn’t articulate it—not now—but his expression hurt to look at.

She went to the doorstep and set the scrolls down, then backed away. “I’ll go. Ta.” She turned and began walking away, until Aziraphale called and she stopped in her tracks.

“Crawly, wait.”

Right, she still had to tell him about her name. She turned slowly to face him again. “Yeah?”

He was lit up in the golden light of the setting sun, wringing his hands and not quite looking at her. “It won’t be long now. A decade, perhaps.”

“Oh.”

“Indeed.” He paused in his hand-wringing and made eye contact with her. “Are you—?”

“I’m fine. Brilliant, really.” She smiled. “Have a nice decade.”

“Likewise. Or, er, have a naughty decade?”

Crowley grimaced. “Don’t say that.”

“If you insist.” He seemed to be smothering a smile now as well. “Farewell.”

“Bye.” She raised a hand in a half-wave, then turned on her heel and began walking away.

The feeling in her chest was back. The love one. She was so fucked. 


	391. 111 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

_111 BC. Jerusalem, Judea, Canaan_.

Aziraphale knocked at Crawly’s door and stepped back, trying to appear as though his presence were incidental. He doubted it worked, but it made him feel better. 

The door creaked open and Crawly looked out. Her hair looked mussed, hurriedly covered for modesty. The veil over her eyes was crooked. “Aziraphale?”

“May I come in, please? I’d like to speak with you.”

“Of course.” She stepped to the side and let him in, then shut the door behind him and pulled off her veil, balling it up with the cloth that had covered her hair. She set them both on a table before following him toward the two chairs in the room. 

Aziraphale stopped in front of one of the chairs, facing her. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“You’re not.” She paused in front of the chair opposite him. “D’you want to. Y’know.” She pointed to the chair and shrugged.

He looked back. “Oh. Oh, yes.”

Neither of them moved.

Gracious, what had happened to them? This was absurd. Aziraphale sat.

Crawly sat too, sprawling over the chair in a very undignified manner. Somehow, it still managed to look aesthetically pleasing.

“You wanted to talk?”

“Yes. I’m afraid my, er… carriage last time we spoke left something to be desired.”

“’S fine. I could’ve said I was leaving.”

“What?”

“In Tyre, I mean.” Crawly shifted. “I could’ve told you. I just… didn’t want to you ask questions.”

“Why not?”

“Demon stuff.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I suppose it’s for the better if I don’t know, then.” He wished he could, though. “What brings you back?”

“Friend of mine said—shit. Er, he died.”

“I’m sorry.”

Crawly shrugged. “You know how it is. Stuck around too long.”

“I do know, unfortunately.” He paused. “So you left… Greece, I presume?”

“Yeah.” She stretched out further. “Athens.”

“Hmm. I’ve never been. Is it nice?”

“Not really.” She sniffed. “I hear it was better for a bit, but by the time I got back, it wasn’t really much to write home about. So to speak.”

He had heard about Athens more often for a bit. Three hundred years ago, perhaps. It had died down more of late.

“Back now. Where’ve you been?”

“Here, for the most part.” Aziraphale paused. “I spent a little while in Susa.”

“Susa… Elam?”

“Formerly. It was part of the Achaemenid Empire at the time.”

“Right.” She frowned. “What were you doing down there?”

“I was on assignment.”

She nodded slowly. “Did it go well?”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “Not particularly. There was quite a lot of violence at one point.”

“Ooh. That’s no—er… great.”

She was clearly attempting to be convincing, but said the last word so flatly that it failed utterly. 

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at her.

“Oi.”

He smiled. Perhaps this would be all right, after all. “Tell me about Cain? I believe you mentioned him before.”


	392. 99 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for use of alcohol as a coping mechanism.

_99 BC. Jerusalem, Judea, Canaan_. 

Crowley sloshed wine from an amphora into Aziraphale’s cup, then her own. A not-insignificant amount of wine splashed out, but Crowley gestured at it and it slunk into the cups.

Aziraphale peered over the table. “Are you quite sure you have it?”

“Yeah.” She lifted one of the cups carefully and passed it to him, their fingertips brushing. She shivered, then took her own cup with her to sit down, swinging her legs over the side of the chair so she wouldn’t have to look at him.

It was difficult, being back. Easier than she’d imagined, though. He was just so… himself. She’d forgot just how himself he was. Which sounded ridiculous, but she’d had at least three cups of wine at this point, so it was allowed.

“Crawly?” Aziraphale’s tone was pensive.

She glanced over, then away. “What.”

“Were you dis-cor-por-a-ted?” 

“You said it.” Crowley grinned. Brilliant, sounding things out like that. Instead of bumbling around _trying_ to say the word you meant until you gave up. Which was what Aziraphale normally did. What they both did. Who’d started that, anyway? She couldn’t remember anymore.

“I did.” Aziraphale looked pleased with himself, but then he frowned. “Were you, though?”

“Yeah. When d’you mean?”

“Some time ago.”

Crowley groaned, tilting her head back over the arm of the chair. “You’re going to have to be more specific, angel.”

“During your ‘Demon stuff.’ You know. Er. Six hundred years ago, perhaps? Seven?”

That would’ve been Aspariel. “Yup. Angel got mad at me.”

“Why?”

Eurgh. Then there were these conversations. Had to walk on bloody eggshells. Being drunk didn’t help, either. “I said I was doing Demon stuff. Why d’you think?”

“Really.”

She shot him a glare. “They captured me, I talked back, got a sword through my chest.”

“My dear.” Aziraphale gave them a reproachful look, which did absolutely nothing to stop their stomach going all awful and fluttery at the ‘dear.’ “Why did you ‘talk back’?”

“They were being a right arse, okay?” She huffed. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, but took a sip of wine and settled farther back into his chair. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m a Demon.”

“That doesn’t mean anything sigfifi—drat.” Aziraphale made a face, then appeared to collect himself again. “It doesn’t _mean_ anything in this context.” 

Crowley swallowed. Couldn’t let on. Just—just got to be a Demon. Normal Demon. Not in love with the Angel sitting right there. “It does too,” she managed.

“It does not.”

“It does!”

Aziraphale tutted, but fell silent.

Better change the subject, then. “Run into anyone exciting?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Y’know. While I was gone.” She slipped one leg off the arm rest and boosted herself halfway upright. “Especially fascinating humans? An Angel? Particularly nefarious Demons?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, then he looked away. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Strange. “What, you meeting other Demons?”

He took a sip of wine, apparently to delay speaking.

“Come on.” Crowley swallowed. She didn’t really like the idea of him meeting other Demons. Other Demons were either incompetent or genuinely terrible. She didn’t fancy the idea of him messing about with either. “Did you?”

“There were one or two Demons,” Aziraphale said. “There’s not much to tell. I dealt with them appropriately.”

Of course he did. Terrible question to ask. What was she thinking. “Right.”

They fell into silence. Crowley’s stomach was kicking up a fuss. Came of talking to Aziraphale, probably. And bringing up other Demons. This was why they weren’t meant to fall in love. Too many bloody feelings for a Demon’s body to handle.

“I say,” said Aziraphale, his gaze fixing on something across the room. “Are those figs?”

“What?” Crowley turned to follow his gaze. She’d got a bowl of figs sometime the night before, from a temptation, though her recollection was hazy now. She’d meant to toss them, since she swore off figs. “Yeah.”

“Might I?”

“Ngh. Guess so. If you want.”

Aziraphale stood unsteadily and set his cup down, then tugged his robes into place and went to get the bowl of figs. Then he brought them back and sat down.

Crowley turned away again and shut her eyes. She could hear him eating. What kind of Angel ate, honestly? She still wasn’t over that. 

Or maybe it was just easier to think about the theological ramifications of the situation than the fact that Aziraphale was eating figs. 

“Are you quite all right?”

Crowley opened her eyes again and glanced over to see Aziraphale holding a fig between two fingers. Bless it. She looked away again. “Yeah.”

There was silence for a bit again. Crowley tried to get her thoughts in order, but it proved hard since she was tipsy.

“Would you like one?”

Crowley glanced over to see him holding out a fig. His fingers were shiny now. What the Heaven was she meant to do with that?

“Sworn off.”

Aziraphale pulled his hand back. “I beg your pardon.”

“I swore them off.”

“What, figs?” He examined the one in his hand suspiciously. “What for?”

What for indeed. Could hardly get much worse than it already was. She sat up. “Don’t know anymore. Give it here.”

Aziraphale held it out, and for a horrible moment Crowley thought he was going to feed her. But then his trajectory shifted, and she found herself taking the fig. 

Well. She had it now. 

Crowley stuck the fig in her mouth, chewed, and swallowed with a shiver. Shouldn’t be allowed, one fruit conjuring up all that. 

“Crawly?”

She looked at him. “Right. Er, what?”

“Are you in distress?”

Of course she was. She’d just eaten a fig, and Aziraphale was sitting there, all angelic and innocent. As if he didn’t know what he was doing.

To be fair, he didn’t. Shouldn’t. And she was doing her worst to make sure he didn’t find out. But that didn’t make it better.

“Nah,” she said as casually as she could, then took a gulp of wine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double digits! What is the passage of (albeit fictional) time...


	393. 86 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to emotional abuse (Heaven).

_86 BC. Jerusalem, Judea, Canaan._

Aziraphale lit a candle and carried it to his table. He’d just finished a full day of guidance, and was quite ready to settle in for some well-earned respite. He’d acquired a new tablet of Babylonian stories from before the Achaemenid empire. The passing merchant who’d sold them to him had been pleased to find someone equipped to interpret Akkadian. 

He set the tablet on his desk and snapped his fingers to summon up a cup of warm milk. He took a sip, sighed happily, and set it down to read.

Then there was a flash of Divine light, and a scroll dropped to the table in front of him.

Aziraphale glowered at the scroll. Heaven had no sense of the proper times for contacting people.

Still. Ignoring it wouldn’t accomplish anything. Rather the opposite, in fact.

He picked it up and unrolled it as he took another sip of milk, skimming it. “Gracious.” He read it again. 

It shouldn’t really have been a surprise. Yet, somehow, it was. Gabriel, on Earth. Perish the thought. Gabriel was about as suited to Earth as… better not finish that. 

At least he had a few days, provided Gabriel was punctual. He’d have to put away his scrolls and tablets, spruce things up a bit. Find a last meal, perhaps, and some wine. Perhaps Crawly would know where to find that…

Oh, goodness—he’d have to warn Crawly.

He got to his feet and tugged on his robe, then took his candle and set off into the city. It looked quite different in the dark, and he hadn’t gone to Crawly’s house at night before. Left, to be sure, but never gone.

There were no lights under the door when he arrived. Hopefully she was sleeping. He didn’t know what he’d do if she were out.

He knocked quietly, but there was no response.

Drat. He knocked again. “Hello? Open up, please. I daresay it’s rather urgent.”

There was still no response.

One more time, and then he’d go poking about the city. He knocked on the door hard enough it shuddered. “ **Open up**.”

Something crashed inside and there was a scrambling noise until the door opened.

“’Ziraphale?” There was a bit of sheer black fabric draped over Crawly’s face and hair. “What the Heaven.”

“Let me in, please.”

She groaned, but stepped aside and tugged the veil off as she shut the door. Her hair was in a braid, curls coming loose, and her face had a crease on it. “What’s going on?”

“I’ve just had a message.”

She rubbed her eyes with one hand, the other arm folded across her chest. “And?”

“It’s from Heaven.” He glanced to the sides, and stepped in closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Gabriel’s coming down.”

Crawly froze and lowered her hand from her face. “What? Now?”

“In a fortnight. I’m terribly—that is, they don’t tell me about these things very far in advance.”

“Hmm.” She sighed. “So I’ll just scarper, shall I?”

“I think it would be for the best. Gabriel isn’t… he’s not the most forgiving.”

Crawly’s forehead wrinkled, and Aziraphale could see her swallow before speaking. “I’ll… see you someday, then?”

“Someday.” Aziraphale attempted to smile, then licked his lips and looked away. He wasn’t entirely sure what the long-term ramifications of Gabriel’s assignment would be. He’d thought they had another two thousand years, but the letter had implied that they might be starting the end of the world early.

“What is it?” He could feel Crawly looking at him. “Angel?”

He swallowed. “It’s nothing. Just, er. Nerves! Yes, nerves. I’d best be going now. Lots to do.” He looked at her again, smiling as best he could, and began sidling toward the door. 

“Right.” She watched him go. “You know…”

He stopped. “Beg pardon?”

“You know. It’s helpful. Knowing that.”

“Oh. Jolly good.”

“Yeah.” Her eyes flicked away, then back to him. “Have a good decade. I’ll be off soon.”

“Ah.” He opened the door again, and stepped out. “Mind how you go.”

Outside, it was nippier than when he entered. Or perhaps he was warmer. The flame of his candle guttered as he began walking, but kept burning. 


	394. 83 BC - Thebes, Egypt

_83 BC. Thebes, Ptolemaic Kingdom, Egypt._

Crowley trudged down the street, taking in the buildings. Some of them were built up again, but a lot were rubble. Reminded her of Babylon, after the Assyrians destroyed it. 

“Madam?” A human in feminine dress approached her, speaking stilted Greek. “Are you lost?”

Crowley shook her head. “Nah.” She switched to Egyptian. “D’you understand me?”

The human blinked, then squinted. “Was that meant to be Egyptian?” She spoke Egyptian now.

“Yeah. I’m a bit… rusty.” ‘Rusty’ was one way of putting it, anyway. But she’d been poking around Egypt for a few years now, and it seemed like her words made sense now, even if her accent was still centuries out of date. “Anyway, what happened here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Y’know.” She gestured around at the general destruction. “It didn’t used to be rubble.”

“Oh. It was destroyed.”

Crowley hissed. Maybe pushing wouldn’t help this time. “Right.”

“When were you here last?”

“Long time ago.” She sniffed. “Thanks anyway.”

The human protested, but Crowley kept walking. 

It was strange. She’d first come to Waset more than two thousand years ago. Learned to garden. And now, it was just… gone. 

She hadn’t meant to come back, really. Just sort of happened. She arrived in Lower Egypt and just kept finding the cities… different. All Greek and weird. So she kept moving, and now she was here. 

Wasn’t even called the same thing these days. What kind of name was ‘Thebes,’ honestly? Properly Demonic, that. She could add it to her next report.

Some part of her thought she should settle in someplace for a bit. Get a good, solid temptation in. But she didn’t really… feel like it. 

What she wanted to do, if she were being honest with herself, was go back to Jerusalem. But she couldn’t very well do that. Gabriel was there.

It wasn’t fair! She’d only just started talking to Aziraphale again and an Archangel had to come and muck it up. 

Still, he’d be gone in a few decades, hopefully. Then she could see her angel again. 


	395. 72 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for emotional abuse (Heaven).

_72 BC. Jerusalem, Judea, Canaan._

“Respectfully, it does no good for you to appear in a blaze of Divine glory if you can’t speak Hebrew.”

Gabriel frowned. “Why not?”

“Because, you have to ask her,” said Aziraphale with as much patience as he could muster. “You can hardly have her carry the child of God if she isn’t up to the task. Imagine the scandal if she were unable to care for it!”

“Why wouldn’t she?”

Aziraphale resisted a desperate urge to look Heavenward and beseech the Almighty to send another Archangel in Gabriel’s place. Instead, he exhaled slowly and kept his smile fixed on his face. “Because babies require money and resources, both physical and emotional. It’s no small task.”

“So? It’s the child of God.”

“Yes, but suppose they don’t believe that. And even if they do, it’s hardly a simple matter! That’s quite a lot of pressure for one human.”

“We would not be pressing her,” said Gabriel without a hint of sarcasm.

Drat. “Pressure. It’s a turn of phrase in Hebrew.” He sighed. So long not speaking the language of Heaven had left him a bit topsy-turvy, vernacularly speaking. “Which leads us neatly back to the task at hand: ensuring you are properly grounded in the language.”

“I still don’t see why I can’t just—” Gabriel looked directly at Aziraphale, purple eyes intense.

There was an odd, searing sensation and Aziraphale was informed once again of the imminent coming of God’s child. It was dreadfully discomfiting. Not least because the knowledge smacked of Gabriel in a manner beyond any human sense.

Aziraphale inhaled sharply, straightening up. “The vast majority of human minds aren’t meant to accommodate that sort of information transfer.”

“So?” Gabriel shrugged. “We’d find one that can eventually.”

Really, Aziraphale didn’t know why Gabriel had come down in advance to learn the language when he had no intention of learning the language. They’d been at it for years, and Gabriel barely had a grasp on one verb tense. It had taken a year just to convince him to wear local clothing!

And now they were at it again. If Aziraphale had a wing for every time he’d had to explain why Gabriel needed to learn Hebrew, he would have more than a whole Heavenly choir put together. “Be that as it may, we cannot test it on every Jewish virgin capable of carrying a child we come across.”

Gabriel blinked. “Why?”

“Because all the ones who weren’t equipped for that sort of knowledge would be injured!” Aziraphale tried to gather himself. He was getting rather worked up, wasn’t he?

He took a deep breath and sighed. “If you would like to risk it, that is your choice. However, my impression was that you were instructed by the Metatron to _tell_ the virgin in question, whomever it may turn out to be. If that is the case, then in my opinion as the expert on Angelic procedure on Earth, I would recommend that you continue to learn Hebrew.”

Gabriel huffed. “I don’t know, Aziraphale…”

He was doing his Angelic duty. This was for the Plan. It was extremely important, regardless of any feelings his body might have been experiencing.

Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap. “Well, whenever you are ready to continue learning, I shall be here. Or, if you like, you could visit the marketplace to hear it spoken by humans.”

Gabriel made an expression of disgust. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Humans tend to believe that learning a language is best accomplished by immersion.”

“Ugh. But they’re humans. All that… dust and stink. Are you sure you’re qualified for this?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not speak 1st century BC Hebrew, so one can assume that any reference to turns of phrase or grammar have been changed from what was actually said to work in English.


	396. 57 BC - Alexandria, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for sexism.

_57 BC. Alexandria, Ptolemaic Kingdom, Egypt._

Crowley looked up from a scroll she’d been perusing to see a human in dingy masculine clothing watching her nervously. “What?”

“Are you lost, ma’am?”

“Nope.” She raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”

The human’s jaw dropped and she smirked while he tried to get a sentence out. He did manage it in the end. “I am a _librarian_.”

“Really?” Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Right mess of a library.”

“It is world-renowned.”

“Not anymore.” Crowley looked back down at her scroll.

The librarian waited in indignant silence for another moment before speaking again. “What are you doing here?”

Crowley looked up, faking confusion. “Reading.”

“No, what are _you_ doing _here_?”

“Reading.”

“Madam.”

So that’s what his problem was. “Oh, is this a gender thing?”

“A—really!”

Well, then. He deserved it. Crowley rolled up the scroll. “If you’re going to be like that, I’ll just go.” She began to walk away.

The human spluttered, and began to chase after her. He was significantly shorter than her. 

Crowley grinned.

“You can’t take the scroll; it belongs to the library.”

She stopped and turned to face him, not bothering to wipe the smile from her face. “Y’know, I have a friend a lot like you. Except in all the ways that matter.”

“What?”

“Yeah. He’d like this place, I think. If he hasn’t been here already, which he could’ve. We were out of touch for a bit. Couple of centuries. Well, I say a couple… anyway. You’re like him, but worse, which would be an insult except that everybody is. Worse than him, I mean.”

The human blinked, then shook his head. “You have to give the scroll back.”

“Why?” She pinched it between two fingers, waving it above his head. “I want it.”

The human swiped at it, but Crowley moved it out of arms’ reach, pouting. “Whoops. Missed it.”

“I demand you give the scroll back at once!”

“Hmm.” She made a show of thinking, then shrugged. “Yeah, why not. My friend probably wouldn’t like it if I gave him stolen goods.” She passed it over.

The librarian snatched the scroll back, glaring.

Crowley smirked at him.

“I ought to have you arrested!”

“Good luck.” She turned and strolled away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Library was defunded by this point and had lost a lot of its prestige. I don’t actually know for sure if it was gender segregated, but sexism was definitely a thing by this time, so.
> 
> Also, on the subject of Crowley’s height… my female!Crowley is the same height as male!Crowley (and nonbinary!Crowley who exists in my headcanon), and thus over six feet tall because  
> a) that’s how tall female!Crowley is in TV canon  
> b) tall women rock,   
> and,   
> c) she deserves it. <3


	397. 48 BC - Alexandria, Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied/referenced emotional abuse (Heaven).
> 
> For context, this takes place shortly after the library of Alexandria burned.

_48 BC. Alexandria, Ptolemaic Kingdom, Egypt_.

Aziraphale stood in the ruined library. Ash drifted through the air, no doubt mostly consisting of former scrolls.

Gabriel had some business in Heaven for a few months, so Aziraphale had elected to take a holiday. The library seemed a splendid idea at the time. He hadn’t paid much mind to the stories of civil unrest. 

Ah, well.

A significant portion of the library seemed intact, to be fair. But the half nearer the docks—the half he stood in now—was charred and blackened. 

It was probably rather strange of him to stand inside the burned library, but he’d needed to see it. 

The Library of Ashurbanipal burned too. Humans seemed to have a pattern of burning libraries. To be entirely fair, this one had purportedly been an accident. He couldn’t quite forgive it, though.

There was a noise on the other side of the room and a figure in dark clothes stepped out from behind a column. White ash powdered the bottom of her skirt. 

Crawly walked a few steps forward. “Aziraphale?”

“Ah. Hello, dear.”

“Is your… boss with you?” He couldn’t see her eyes because of her veil, but she sounded cautious. 

He shook his head. “Nipped away for a bit. He’s not due back until spring.”

“Right.” Crawly walked closer and stopped an arms’ length away. “Came to check on the library?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She grimaced, then spoke. “They’re already talking about clearing this away.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “That will hardly repair the damage.” He gestured to the papyrus ash. 

“It won’t.” She paused. “Wasn’t pretty.”

“I should hope not.” Some part of his mind felt he ought to make a comment about Demons reveling in destruction, but he didn’t. It seemed dreadfully uncouth when Crawly was being sympathetic. “Were you there?”

“Hmm? Yeah.” She looked away. “I, er…”

Aziraphale frowned. “What is it?”

“Don’t worry about it. ’S not a big deal.”

He pursed his lips. “If you conceal something to do with this from me, I shall become cross.”

“Right. It’s just… I was in the area. When it was burning, y’know. And, I thought…” She scratched the back of her head over the veil covering her hair, then dropped her hand with a sigh. “Can I just show you?”

How strange. “I suppose so.”

“Right.” She sniffed, then turned. “Come on, then.”

He followed her out of the library and through the streets of Alexandria. She didn’t say anything, which was nice. He didn’t feel quite prepared for discussion, under the circumstances.

Crawly’s dwelling seemed to be a small house in a residential area. It was clearly the dwelling of someone wealthy, but was otherwise reasonably unobtrusive.

Crawly pushed open the door. “Go on, then,” she said gruffly. 

Aziraphale stepped through, taking in the room. The marble bust from her house in Jerusalem was here. A doorway led into another room. 

“You can sit.” She shut the door with one hand and pointed to a pair of chairs with the other. “I’ll go get them.”

“Get what?”

She’d already gone through the door.

Aziraphale settled into the chair facing away from the doorway, feeling deeply out of place. There was nothing objectively wrong, but Crawly seemed… strange. Perhaps she’d got into a spot of trouble? 

The more cautious part of his mind thought perhaps she had harmful intent, but, well… he knew Crawly, and had done for nearly four thousand years.

Footsteps sounded behind him from the doorway, and he turned slightly to see Crawly approaching, her arms full of scrolls. She’d taken off her veils, too, curls hanging about her shoulders. 

Aziraphale swallowed as she turned to face him, setting the scrolls on a low table. There was a tightness in his chest—something warm he couldn’t place.

“I know it’s not much,” she said, breaking the silence. “I didn’t see the fire approaching until the building’d nearly caught. But, y’know. I got a few. There’s fourteen of them.”

“You—you went in during the fire?”

“Yeah. It’s—I mean, I know I’d never hear the end of it if you found out I’d just… not done anything.”

Aziraphale’s breathing was shallow. Something terribly strange was happening to him. He blinked rapidly.

She’d gone into the library while it was burning. To save the scrolls. For _him_.

Crawly unfroze and launched herself back to sit in the chair opposite him. “It’s not a big deal. Just seemed the ri—I mean. A thing. To do.”

Aziraphale picked up one of the scrolls. The hand was familiar, and the scroll was brittle in his fingers. It smelled of smoke. 

She’d saved it, because it was the right thing to do. 

He loved her.

He did, didn’t he? That was this feeling in his chest, and why he’d had such difficulty when she left him. He was in love with her, and had been for quite a long time. How long? More than nine hundred years, to be sure. It was entirely possible it had been longer.

He was in love with a Demon.

Fuck.

“Aziraphale?” She was sitting up, leaning forward, her golden eyes full of concern she hadn’t bothered to hide.

“Hmm?” He took the scroll, avoiding eye contact. “This is—my, it’s absolutely lovely. Just splendid. How wonderful. I’ll just—shall I leave this?”

“Nah. Not my thing. You can have them.” She paused. “Want a drink?”

Aziraphale couldn’t breathe. He gathered the scrolls in his arms, then stood. He had to leave before she realized what had happened, until he got these feelings under control. 

“Where are you going?” Now she looked worried. It did things to him. 

“Oh, I just remembered I have an assignment.” He mustered what he dearly hoped would pass as a breezy smile. “Off I pop. And... I appreciate these. You, saving them.”

“Right.” She smiled a bit. It didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

Her eyes were beautiful. He hadn’t put it to words before, but they were. 

“I must be going.” He turned. “Toodle-oo, Crawly.”

“Bye.”

He nodded hurriedly and left. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D


	398. 39 BC - Cyrene, Libya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to murder and antisemitism.

_39 BC. Cyrene, Roman Republic, Libya_. 

To Dagon, Lord of the Tablets.

 **When** : Autumn. 3965 years After Creation. 

**Where** : Cyrene, Roman Republic, Africa, Earth, Material Reality.

 **What [The Big Stuff]** : Tempt humans to sin to bring about Armageddon and the triumph of Hell.

 **What [Minutiae You Still Can’t Screw Up Without At Least A Little Bit of Discomfort Afterwards]** : No specific assignment at this time. 

**Report** : Stuff up here’s going fantastically depravedly. Remember the great big project I mentioned working on last time? Well, it’s gone off perfectly. The Romans have taken over loads of territory, and they’re just as dysfunctional as ever. Infighting, and all that.

Specifically, there was a nice, messy civil war recently. Bloke’s head was given to a head of state as a gift. A queen got smuggled in a carpet. All that jazz. I was in Alexandria at the time. Managed to get a library burned down. That’s a centre of learning and enlightenment, for the record. Turns the stomach just thinking of it.

I also got an assassination done. Real messy stuff. Bunch of senators stabbed a guy named Caesar.* Caused some excellent unrest in the populace and politicians, you can imagine. That was five years ago now, up in Rome. 

(* Crowley had not actually been responsible for the assassination of Julius Caesar. She hadn’t even been in Roman territory at the time, much less Rome itself. Instead, she’d heard about it six months after the fact and thought it would look brilliant on a report, so she went up to Rome for a bit and bribed some humans to add references to her in their records. Just in case someone checked up. She also took the opportunity to start learning Latin and plug up some aqueducts.)

Now, I’m in Cyrene. I’ve been stirring up some dissent and discord. The Greeks—it’s originally a Greek settlement, probably should’ve mentioned that earlier—aren’t the nicest of folks. Keep taking away liberties from the Jewish folks. Which is new. They weren’t doing that when Cyrene was part of the Ptolemaic kingdom. Oh, and the Jewish people don’t like that, naturally, so the whole thing results in a lot of short-tempered humans more likely to do bad stuff. 

I’ve been doing routine temptations as usual. All logged on the attached tablets. 

I had a brief encounter with the Principality Aziraphale 3956 years after Creation. He attempted to retaliate for the destruction of the library in Alexandria, but I gave him what he deserved and scared him off before he could muck anything up. 

**Questions** : Has anybody down there seen scrolls? They’re getting more popular up here. Might be worth looking into. Though they are a bit flammable… 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roman history is not my forte, so apologies for inaccuracies here. As we get into more commonly known history, it’s quite likely that the holes in my research will grow more obvious. Thank you all for bearing with me!


	399. 26 BC - Babylon, Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for homophobia, violence (against Gabriel), reference to sex, emotional abuse (Heaven), and implied themes of sexual assault.

_26 BC. Babylon, Parthian Empire, Mesopotamia_.

Aziraphale attempted to focus his attention on the wares being sold from a shop. It was a lost cause, though. He couldn’t resist stealing glances across the street to where Gabriel stood outside a dwelling. 

This was their second attempt at finding someone to carry God’s child. The first had been… well, the poor dear had been rather worse for the wear after they departed. Aziraphale had gone back afterward to patch things up.

The door Gabriel was standing at creaked open as Aziraphale watched out the corner of his eye. A young person in feminine clothing was greeting him, looking mildly apprehensive. She stepped to the side though, and shut the door behind Gabriel. 

Aziraphale straightened up and crossed the street to linger closer to the house. He could hear Gabriel’s booming voice, carrying through the open window. “Big news, Rachel. God has chosen you for an important job.”

“Er… what?”

Oh, the poor girl. Aziraphale pursed his lips, clasping his hands behind his back and making a show of studying a crack in the wall.

“She favours you,” said Gabriel. “You will conceive Her child and give birth to them, and you’ll call them Yeshua.”

There came the sound of breaking pottery.

“What is… _that_?” Gabriel asked. 

Aziraphale shivered.

“Sir, I don’t know who you are, but you must have mistaken me for someone else,” Rachel said. “I’m not—I haven’t known anyone like that. Definitely not a woman.”

“The Almighty is beyond your feeble mortal concepts of gender.” Gabriel huffed. “What do you think? Ready to be the mother of God?”

“ _No_.” 

There came the muted sound of an impact, and Gabriel exclaimed indignantly. Then the door opened and he walked out, holding his cheek. The door slammed shut behind him. 

Aziraphale looked up when Gabriel arrived and grimaced. “Oh dear. Are you quite all right?”

“She punched me,” said Gabriel indignantly in the language of Heaven. He took his hand away, revealing a red sore across his cheek. “The puny mortal punched me. How dare she!” 

“You were coming on a bit strong,” said Aziraphale carefully. “I have one or two notes for next time, if you’d be amenable.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “I don’t need help from you.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “Ah. Very well.”

Gabriel waved a hand at his face, and the wound vanished. “I’m going back to the inn. Are you coming?”

“No, not quite yet.” Aziraphale attempted to muster a smile. “I have one or two orders of business, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

“Ugh. Fine. Just make sure you don’t do anything frivolous.”

“I shall do no such thing.”

“Good.” Gabriel turned and strode away into the crowd.

When he’d walked out of sight, Aziraphale exhaled in relief, shoulders slumping, then turned back to the house. No doubt Rachel had been quite frightened by the whole ordeal. Perhaps he could allay her fears a bit. 

They really ought to do something a bit more direct. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ or something to that effect. Of course, he would have to sort out how to bring it up…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then they spent the next 25 years trying to find someone who wasn’t immediately put off by Gabriel.
> 
> I picked Babylon because it looked like there was still a large Jewish population left from the Babylonian captivity. And I elected to make Jesus/Yeshua’s gender not predetermined, because I come from a Christian background and thus feel mostly okay messing with whatever I want.


	400. 17 BC - Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for murder and reference to torture.

_17 BC. Hell_. 

Crowley dropped to the ground and straightened up, taking in her surroundings. They’d updated the architecture since the last time she was down here. Which made sense—that was over a thousand years ago now.

“Crowley?” 

She turned to see a small Demon in the form of a birdlike humanoid hopping toward her across the floor. “Who’s asking?”

“The Demon Sanlur. I’ve been sent to bring you to Lord Beelzebub.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. That was new. “Right. Lead the way.”

Sanlur began hopping down the hall, and she followed. 

The hallways were painted now. Great big, sloppy murals of torture and general suffering. A few had notes on them too, in the cuneiform version of the language of Hell—the one Aziraphale had come up with—mostly to the tune of ‘this could be you’ and an indication of which particular flavour of misery the inscriber meant. 

At the end of the hall, there was a large pair of doors. A pair of burly Demons stood on either side. 

Sanlur hopped up to them. “The Demon Crowley for an audience with Lord Beelzebub.”

“Who’re you?” Asked one of the Demons, who looked a bit like an elephant.

“Sanlur. Let her in.”

“It’s fine, Podluk,” said the other Demon, who resembled a dog, “I know Sanlur.”

Podluk shrugged. “It’s on your head.”

The canid Demon yanked open the doors to the hall. “Bad luck.”

Crowley waited until Podluk had opened their door too, then nodded to them both and went through.

The hall was full of Demons. The Dark Council were sat at a table on a dias, with a shadowy figure at the end of it. Satan, no doubt. He looked bored.

Below the dias, Demons thronged. One bumped into Crowley almost immediately, then did a double-take. “What’s right with you?”

“Nothing’s right about me,” Crowley snapped. She’d lost track of how to do things in Hell, blast it all.

“You look like a human,” another Demon remarked. 

Bugger. Crowley exhaled, letting some of her more Demon traits show themselves. Her teeth sharpened, scales sprouting along her legs and down her arms, her eyes going properly yellow. She kept the human tongue, though. Hissing all the time was bloody annoying. “I was on assignment to Earth.”

“Eh. Still look human,” said the first Demon.

Crowley hissed at them, flaring her wings. “Want to say it again, pal?” 

They sneered at her but backed down, and she moved off through the crowd.

As she neared the stage, the Demons around her got worse. A hippopotamus-like Baronet of Hell saw her getting close and snapped at her. 

It was fine. She could see the dias, and that was what mattered.

There was a grating noise of stone on stone and Crowley turned to see the doors clang shut. 

The crowd went quiet. It wasn’t a pleasant quiet, though. An apprehensive, frightened quiet. The sort that makes every hair stand up, and makes every little noise sound like the beginning of the end.

“Demonzz,” said Lord Beelzebub from the dias. “We have important intelligenzze on the oppozzition.”

The crowd let out a collective noise of anger somewhere between a growl and a hiss.

Crowley managed a half-hearted hiss, but it wasn’t nearly enough. At least no one was looking at her. 

“The Angelzz are bringing the mezzziah to Earth. They are defying the Plan to get the upper hand. It izz the child of our King who is prophezzied to bring about Armageddon, not their Heaven spawn.” Beelzebub paused for dramatic effect, zzer eyes flicking over the indignant crowd. “Azz such, our ignoble King hazz decreed that one of you zztop them.”

The crowd erupted in noise.

Shit. That meant somebody else would be going up to Earth, didn’t it? She didn’t want Armageddon to happen because of God’s child, obviously, but another _Demon_? 

That was why Aziraphale’s boss was on Earth, wasn’t it? Was her angel involved? Had to be, if Gabriel were tagging along with him. 

“Silenzze,” called Beelzebub. 

The crowd quieted. 

“Our Lord will announzze Hell’s champion againzzt Heaven’s plot.” Beelzebub turned to Satan and bowed.

Crowley swallowed. If he was getting involved, this was serious.

“MY LOYAL SERVANTS,” said Satan. His voice rolled out over Hell, sending shivers through the crowd. It was different from when he spoke through a human— luscious and very, very wrong. “TO STOP GOD’S CHILD IS AN HONOUR AND A PRIVILEGE. THE DARK COUNCIL AND I HAVE DELIBERATED FOR SOME TIME OVER WHICH OF OUR NUMBER WILL WRONG THIS RIGHT, AND WE HAVE CHOSEN… THE DEMON CROWLEY.”

Shit.

The other Demons turned as one mass to look at her. She inhaled, straightening up. She had to be cool. Act like she’d expected it. Of course she had. She’d been working on Earth for nearly four millennia. It was a job on Earth. No big deal.

“Why the fuck is it Crowley?” The speaker was a Demon toward the front, wearing a Duke’s regalia.

“CROWLEY HAS SERVED ME WELL ON EARTH. NO ONE KNOWS BETTER HOW TO CORRUPT HUMANS, AND THE CHILD OF GOD WILL BE HUMAN.” Satan paused, then looked at another member of the Council. “KILL THEM.”

Crowley looked away as the helpless Duke screamed. When she looked back, another Demon wore the clothes of a Duke. 

“COME HERE, CROWLEY. DAGON HAS YOUR INSTRUCTIONS. THE REST OF YOU… RETURN TO YOUR TOIL.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m kind of winging the theology with Jesus so it works with the plot. Let me know what you think, if you wish.


	401. 6 BC - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for emotional abuse/gaslighting (Heaven).

_6 BC. Jerusalem, Roman Empire, Canaan_.

Aziraphale dipped his pen in ink and checked the text he was copying, then looked back to his own scroll and began writing. It was a folktale of sorts, and though he wasn’t entirely certain of it, he had the sense he’d heard a version of it a few centuries earlier. 

“Aziraphale.”

He started, his pen arcing across the paper and ruining his work. “Good heavens.” He set it down and folded his hands, looking up at Gabriel. “You gave me a fright.”

Gabriel scoffed. “If that gave you a fright, you need to up your game.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “Sorry.” His face was rather warm. It did that more often of late. He’d identified the emotion to be shame. 

“We’ve found another one,” said Gabriel.

“Oh, is that so?” They had visited at least twenty people. Every few months or years, Gabriel would receive word of another particularly devout Jewish person capable of carrying a child. Sometimes they had to wait a bit until the individual was ready, and then they would go for Gabriel to announce that they had been chosen. Gabriel was then—invariably, so far—rejected, and they began the process all over again. 

“Yes. A Galilean woman.”

“Hmm.” At least Galilee wasn’t too terribly far away. “Where in Galilee?”

“Nazrith.”

“Nazareth, you mean?”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “No, Aziraphale, I mean Nazrith.”

“Quite.” He was nearly certain the town was, in fact, called Nazareth, but it did no good to argue. And when they found incontrovertible evidence that the correct name _was_ Nazareth, Gabriel would no doubt claim that Aziraphale had it the wrong way around.

It was terribly disconcerting.

“What’s this?” Gabriel poked Aziraphale’s scroll.

“Oh.” He started. “Just, er, a bit of copying I was doing.”

“I can see that, Aziraphale.”

“It’s a folktale. For children.”

Gabriel frowned. “That’s hardly fit for an Angel.”

Aziraphale’s heart sank. “It teaches morals,” he managed.

“Really? I don’t think so.” Gabriel held out a hand. “You have to be more vigilant, Aziraphale. I’d hate for you to Fall. Evil can creep in anywhere—even where we least expect it.”

Oh dear. Aziraphale passed the scroll over, even as an unfortunately vivid image of Crawly rose unbidden in his mind’s eye. He’d been plagued by her ever since that day in Alexandria, though he did his utmost to put her out of his mind when Gabriel was close at hand. Suppose he realized Aziraphale was in love? It didn’t bear thinking about. 

He turned to see Gabriel crumpling the scroll, then looked away when he tossed it in the fire. 

“Who is it now, then?” He asked finally.

“Who is what?”

“The latest candidate to carry God’s child.”

“Ah.” Gabriel clapped his hands together, grinning broadly. “A young woman named Maryam. I have a good feeling about this one.”

“Do you indeed?” Aziraphale picked up the stopper for his ink bottle and used it to close it up. “When do we visit?”

“She’s young, so Uriel is insisting we wait another year or two.”

“So, one year,” said Aziraphale with distaste.

“Exactly.” Gabriel grinned. “You’re catching on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! 2/3 of the way done. 203 scenes to go. Thank you everyone for joining me-- I really appreciate everyone who's commenting and leaving kudos. (Over 300 kudos? Over 1,000 comments? Wow, you guys. I wish I had a more articulate response than this, but I do not.) Anyway, off we go into the final stretch! Canon scenes galore... I'm very excited. :D


	402. 4 BC - Bethlehem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for inadvertent deadnaming.

_4 BC. Bethlehem, Roman Empire, Canaan._

Crowley pulled her shawl around her shoulders and kicked a rock viciously down the hill. It tumbled end over end, until it stopped twenty feet down with a quiet thud in the grass. She’d been standing out here for hours now, and she was getting very, very, bored.

It was Ligur’s bloody fault. Somebody downstairs had thought it was a great idea to send a Duke who hadn’t been to Earth for at least a millennium—maybe two—to do the reconnaissance. 

Then again, better them than her. Apparently they’d gone to eavesdrop on an Archangel, which was a brilliant way to get smote in her books. 

Still, that didn’t help with the fact she was standing out here looking for a star she was starting to think was fake. After all, Crowley knew how stars worked. You couldn’t put a _star_ over a sheep pen. How Ligur didn’t know that, she wasn’t sure. 

Crowley stamped her feet in the grass, teeth chattering.* It wasn’t that cold, really, as cold went. It being Spring in a moderately warm area and all. But it had rained earlier in the night, and she was damp, and the water on the grass was turning to frost. 

(* Crowley could, at any time, have summoned up warmer clothes or banished the moisture from the ones she already had. However, she was too preoccupied with her disgruntlement and feeling sorry for herself to think of this.)

A sheep bleated in the distance.

It was demeaning, honestly, standing out here like this. Come to think of it, maybe that was why they put her in charge of it instead of somebody higher up. Ligur, or Belial, or whoever.

Golden light burst in the sky in the distance and Crowley looked up to see—well, that wasn’t a star. Not by a long show. Big, glowy thing, but it wasn’t even a sphere, and she’d bet her wings it didn’t have nearly enough nuclear fission.

“What d’you know. Ligur’s not completely incompetent.” Crowley shivered, then picked up her skirts in one hand and started off toward the ‘star.’

She couldn’t be there properly, obviously. Even though she didn’t sense an Archangel, Gabriel had been on Earth in the past couple of decades, so it was too risky. Better safe than smote. But she was supposed to be nearby, so.

Over the crest of the next hill, she passed through a flock of sheep. Their associated shepherds stood to the side of the flock, gawking at the so-called star. She waved casually and kept going, ignoring their confused calls after her in Aramaic.

One of the best things about being out in the middle of the night was that people couldn’t see her eyes. Could’ve had a lot more trouble if the shepherds noticed.

Her calves were beginning to burn when she paused in a dip between two hills to catch her breath. She’d been on Earth too bloody long; her body was going all human on her. 

Hang on. She wasn’t moving now, but the Angelic presence was getting stronger. 

A head popped over the top of the hill, silhouetted against the ‘star.’ “Crawly? Is that you?”

“Aziraphale,” she said, allowing herself a grin. 

“You’re lucky it’s just me.” He emerged over the hill, and oh, Heaven, he had his wings out. “There are three of us out tonight.”

Crowley didn’t move as he walked down the hill toward her. He was glowing slightly, dressed in Heavenly garments rather than his usual Earthly textiles.

Had to get a grip. She shook herself and tried to compose her expression as Aziraphale drew closer. 

“What are you doing here?” He asked.

Crowley swallowed. “Er, just Demon stuff.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows.

“I’m assigned to… y’know, keep an eye on the proceedings.” She indicated the star with a tilt of her head. “Nobody else was really ready to do the whole Earth thing so quickly.”

“I see.” He pursed his lips. “Well, as I said… there are other Angels out tonight. Do be careful.”

Crowley’s mouth went dry, and she nodded.

Aziraphale glanced away and made a show of remembering something before looking back at her. “I say, have you seen any shepherds?”

“Yeah.” Crowley jerked a thumb back toward where she’d seen the flocks. “Speaking Aramaic.”

“Quite right.” His glow brightened a bit, and he began walking away. “Must be off, then.”

Crowley watched him go, then stalked off into the grass. She had a job to do, bless it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an unholy amalgam of general nativity imagery from society and actual research. Also, I had 'La Vie Bohème' from Rent in my head the entire time I was writing this, thanks to the Bethlehem reference.


	403. 7 AD - Nazareth, Canaan

_Thursday, 2 August 7 AD. Nazareth, Roman Empire, Canaan_.

Aziraphale walked down the street in town, a basket of bread and dry lentils over one arm. With the birth out of the way, Basrael and Sachael had departed for the time being. 

It had been lovely seeing Basrael again. Their Hebrew had improved since they’d apparently spent a few centuries on Earth lately. Still, it was a bit melancholy having to say good-bye again.

A small human child emerged from around the corner. “Mr. Aziraphale!”

He paused and smiled beatifically. “Hello, Leah. How do you do?”

“We’re playing chase!”

“Ah. Who is ‘we’?”

“Me, Yeshua, Leah, and Rehabiah.” She grinned. “D’you want to play with us?”

“No, thank you.” He tapped his basket. “I’m afraid I have work to be doing.”

“Aww.” Her shoulders slumped.

He frowned. “Oughtn’t you be running? Seeing as you’re playing chase.”

Leah’s eyes went wide. “Oh, yeah.” She turned and ran off. “Bye, Mr. Aziraphale!”

He watched her go, smiling a bit. It was lovely, being among humans again. Properly this time. When he’d been working with Gabriel, it was difficult to stay engaged in the community. Thank goodness they’d found Maryam.

Another child emerged from the same alley whence Leah had come. 

Aziraphale straightened up instinctively, though he did his utmost to keep his expression neutral.

Yeshua waved. “Hello, Aziraphale. Did you see Leah?”

“I did,” he said. “Aren’t I not allowed to tell you where she went?”

“Yeah. But Rehabiah is the one chasing us right now, and he isn’t nearby.”

He was terribly composed for a boy of his age. Though that made some sense, seeing as he was the child of the Almighty. 

Yeshua tilted his head at him. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale quickly. “I’m just on my way home now.”

“Okay. Can I come to your house tomorrow?”

“Of course. What for?”

“I want to talk. You have interesting opinions on scripture.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale did his best to smile.

Happy shrieks sounded from the next street over, and Yeshua hopped into a jog. “I’ll go play again. Thank you, Aziraphale!”

“Not a problem, dear boy.” Aziraphale watched him go, then exhaled quickly and kept walking. 

It really was terribly strange. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that the years are officially going forward, I’m going to start assigning days of the year! This is mainly so that when we get to historical events that have dates, I can use them. They’re mostly going to be randomly assigned, though, and until the 1500’s, the calendar is not as it would have worked at the time.


	404. 24 AD - Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for emotional abuse/gaslighting (Heaven).

_Wednesday, 9 November 24 AD. Heaven_.

Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back, rubbing the pads of his index finger and thumb against one another nervously. It was odd, being back in Heaven. To say the least. But Gabriel had insisted he deliver this report in person, and he could hardly refuse.

Heaven looked different now. The blocky white limestone had been traded out for white marble—still just as austere, but with a tad more style. The view looking out over Earth now had columns, which looked strangely Grecian. And the view over the monuments on Earth had changed completely, of course.

It didn’t really feel… how he remembered it being. 

A loud noise came from the other side of the room and Aziraphale flinched, head whipping to see the source of the noise. 

Gabriel strode toward him, hands crossed in front of him like he’d just clapped. So that was the source of the noise.

Aziraphale attempted a smile, but it didn’t quite stick.

“Aziraphale,” said Gabriel with his own winning smile. “How is Earth?”

“Splendid. Absolutely tip-top.” He gave the smile another go, and it felt like it might have stuck this time. 

“Excellent.” He waited, staring at Aziraphale. His violet eyes blinked expectantly.

Aziraphale tried to steady himself. Really, there was nothing wrong! His body, however, had other ideas. Perhaps it was beginning to believe that it was human and could be harmed by Angels. That seemed a reasonable explanation. 

“Aziraphale?”

“Er, yes?” He focused his gaze again. “Ah! Terribly sorry. That is, Yeshua is getting along quite well. Absolutely splendidly. Bother, I said that already.” He swallowed. “He has a very good recollection of scripture. And, er… he’s rather popular at the temple.”

Gabriel frowned. “What about the messianic stuff?”

“I beg your pardon?”

He rolled his eyes. “Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale…”

Aziraphale shivered. He would be all right. He wasn’t questioning, after all. Following orders to the letter.* He was simply a bit slow on the uptake was all. 

(* With one major exception, which Aziraphale was in no way equipped to deal with at this particular point in time.)

“Uniting the people who believe in God? Bringing about the triumph of Heaven to rule in eternal peace? Any of that ring a bell?”

“Oh. Yes. Of course; I’m sorry.”

Gabriel sighed. “Well?”

So he was still asking whether Yeshua was doing that. “Er, not just yet, no.” He paused. There’d been a time when he thought it was meant to be the descendant of Satan who started up that sort of thing, but clearly he’d been wrong there…

“Hmm. Are you sure you’re doing it right?”

“I am following your instructions,” said Aziraphale uncertainly. “I suppose I could be a bit more vehement in encouraging his studies, but he is rather enthusiastic all on his own… and terribly kind, you know.”

“If that’s your best, we’ll just have to live with it.” Gabriel shrugged, then glanced between Aziraphale and the door. “That’s all.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Thank you. Er… I know it’s not quite what it’s meant to be. I’ll be sure to—”

“That’s _all_.”

Aziraphale swallowed and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sort of mish-mashing stories about messiahs/Jesus here--hopefully it makes sense internally. :)


	405. 29 AD - Jerusalem, Canaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to torture and implied/referenced emotional abuse (Heaven).
> 
> Some parts of this are integrated into an extended scene which includes the aftermath of Golgotha from the show, which you can read [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29743005).

_Tuesday, 10 July 29 AD. Jerusalem, Roman Empire, Canaan_. 

Crowley snapped her fingers to transport herself where she was meant to be. She found herself standing in a field, looking at a figure sitting on a rock a few paces away. He was watching her. She could feel the divinity rolling off him. 

Yeshua waved. “Are you Satan?”

“Nah. Sorry to disappoint.” She sat cross-legged on the ground. “Name’s Crowley.”

“Yeshua of Nazareth. Are you here to tempt me?”

“Yup.” She pulled off her veil to look at him properly. “Look, this is going to be awkward, so I’m just going to get it over with. All right?”

“All right.”

“Right. So. Where d’you want to go? I’m supposed to tempt you with power. Which is ridiculous, because you already have that. Son of God and all. But we could… I don’t know. Take a tour. You ever been outside Galilee?”

“I went to Egypt as a young child.”

“Egypt’s small potatoes these days. You should’ve seen it before. I mean, obviously, it was bad how it was built up, but… point is, the pyramids used to be a Heaven of a lot more impressive. White limestone and gold and all that.” She paused, cocking her head, then shrugged. “Yeah, I’ve got it. Hang on.”

She snapped her fingers again, transporting them to the top of a mountain.

Yeshua frowned. “I thought you were taking me to Egypt?”

“Nah, I’ve got a better idea.” She looked around, appraising their surroundings. It wasn’t a terrible spot. “Let’s sit.”

Yeshua still looked suspicious, which was totally fair, but he sat opposite her. 

“Thing is,” she said. “I’ve been on Earth for a long fucking time. I’ve seen a lot. Bad stuff, good stuff, bloody gorgeous stuff…” Aziraphale rose to mind unbidden, and she pushed the image away. “But the real crux of it is, it’s always changing. Maybe not fast, but it is. Things get worse, they get better. That’s just how you lot are.”

Yeshua frowned. “What does that have to do with Egypt?”

“That’s the case with Egypt, too. I saw it begin, I was there when it rose and fell—which happened surprisingly often—and now I’ve seen it end. It’s part of Rome now, right? But I can show you all of that.”

It was brilliant, if she was being prideful. That was what got lost if he did what the Angels wanted him to do. 

Crowley held out her hand. “Let me show you.”

Yeshua looked down at her hand, then at her face.

She tried to look trustworthy at first, but that was probably a lost cause with her eyes, so she just smiled instead.

He took her hand.

Crowley shut her eyes, conjuring up a memory from the Beginning, and sharing it with him. Way back, right after Adam and Eve were kicked out of the garden. She’d had dinner with them once—them, the boys, and Aziraphale. 

Then she moved on to Uruk. She showed Yeshua how the buildings rose from one story to many. She showed him the ziggurats, the way the Euphrates sparkled in the sun. The fields, the marketplace. All the humans’ faces.

Then Egypt. All the way from the fight she watched with War. Then the pyramids. She tried to keep her sadness remembering the humans who’d suffered to build them away from Yeshua, but he squeezed her hand and she knew she’d failed. After the pyramids, she showed him the statues, the streets. The fig trees in her garden. 

She showed him Athens, and Tyre, and Thebes. Thousands of humans, hundreds of buildings rising and crumbling back down again. Raghavan and Thangadurai, with their brightly colored cotton and cool homes. The tower of Babel, too. The library of Alexandria, and the way it had burned. 

The last one, though, brought an image of Aziraphale to mind, and Crowley let his hand go on instinct. 

She blinked her eyes open. Yeshua looked back at her. 

“It’s so much,” she said finally. “It’s bloody beautiful. And if you bring paradise now… it’ll all stop. So, don’t do that.” She paused. “Oh yeah, and if you worship Satan, he’ll give you, er… the whole world as it is now.”

As if that would be any different from what the Angels wanted to give him anyway.

“So you should worship Satan.”

Yeshua smothered a chuckle. “You’re Hell’s best tempter?”

“Oi. That was a top-notch temptation, I’ll have you know.” She didn’t do that sort of thing for anyone else. Too many emotions. 

“Top-notch?”

“I brought about original sin. Shut up.”

He laughed properly now, dark eyes lighting up with mirth. 

Crowley allowed herself a smile. Then, she stood and offered him a hand again. “Well, that’s my bit done. I’ll take you back to the desert, yeah?”

“And then you’ll leave.”

“And then I’ll leave,” she agreed. 

He accepted her hand, and she pulled him up, then snapped her fingers to take them back to the desert. Yeshua let go of her hand the moment they arrived. 

It was twilight now. A breeze blew her veil about her face.

“How do you know him?” Yeshua asked.

Crowley’s throat went tight. “Know who?”

“Aziraphale.” He paused. “He lived in my neighbourhood.”

“Oh, him.” Crowley laughed. “Just… seen him around, I guess.”

“You love him.”

It wasn’t a question. She swallowed. “Yeah. Don’t tell anyone, please. They’d hurt him.”

“I won’t.” Yeshua paused. “You’ve given me a lot to think about, Crowley.”

“Glad to hear it.”

He chuckled, then gathered himself. “Away from me, devil! Worship the Almighty and serve Her alone.”

It wasn’t serious—not really. Crowley made an obscene gesture at him, then turned to walk away into the desert again. 


	406. 41 AD - Rome, Italy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for slavery, suggestive themes, and accidental deadnaming. 
> 
> As you will likely note, I’ve changed a few things from canon in hopes of increasing historical accuracy. Most prominently, Petronius is the host of a dinner party rather than the owner of a restaurant. That’s because, as near as I could figure, restaurant-like establishments in ancient Rome were more lower-class, while oysters (and Petronius himself) were more aristocratic.

_Thursday, 5 September 41 AD. Rome, Roman Empire, Italy._

Aziraphale stood outside the door to Petronius’s house, glancing back to see Crawly—that is, Crowley—watching him. He swallowed, and looked forward again just as the door opened.

“Aserfilus?” One of Petronius’s slaves, a fellow named Florus, looked from him to Crowley. “I see you’ve brought a friend.”

“Er, no. He’s not my friend.” Aziraphale attempted to smile. The general denial of peoples’ personhood was one of his least favorite parts of Rome so far. Unfortunately, he wasn’t really permitted to leave just yet.

“Petronius doesn’t want strangers attending tonight,” said Florus to Crowley. “So I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Drat. “He’s not my friend,” said Aziraphale quickly at Crowley’s raised eyebrow. “But he’s with—that is, I’ve allowed him to attend with me.”

“Hmm.” Florus looked Crowley up and down one last time, then stepped aside. “Come in. They’re already gathering in the dining room.”

Aziraphale cast a glance toward Crowley, then looked away to lead the way inside. After he thanked Florus, they passed through the entry hall and atrium, into the dining room.

Petronius’s dining room was rather decadently furnished, with five sofas and a large table in the centre of the room. The floor was mosaic, and the walls were covered in stucco depictions of scenes which had rather shocked Aziraphale initially, as a result of both bawdy and violent subject matter. Rome really took some getting used to.

“Aserfilus!” Petronius called from one of the couches. “So good of you to join us. Who’s this?”

“Name’s Crowley,” said Crowley. His Latin was a mite old-fashioned. Aziraphale hadn’t noticed before, since they’d spoken Aramaic in the pub. 

“Are you a Gaul?” Another guest asked with interest. Aziraphale had seen him before, but couldn’t recall his name.

“Nope,” said Crowley. 

“A Greek?”

“Nah.”

“Crowley’s just arrived from the south. Judea.” Aziraphale managed a smile. 

“Like you,” Petronius said.

“Quite.” He’d managed Latin quickly enough, but his accent was still noticeable. 

Petronius stretched out farther on his couch, putting an arm around the man beside him. “Why don’t you sit?”

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale glanced over the couches, all of which were occupied by at least one human but the last, which was empty. He glanced at Crowley, who was watching him quietly, then hastened toward the empty couch.

He sat at the far end, allowing Crowley as much space as possible. 

Goodness, this had been a terrible idea. Petronius was a tolerable chap, but he did tend to get ideas. And poor Crowley wasn’t used to Romans yet. Was he? There had been some time between when he departed from Jerusalem and when they met in Bethlehem…

A pair of slaves entered, one holding a musical instrument. The other wore a somewhat revealing tunic. 

Hmm. 

The musician began playing and his companion danced. Aziraphale looked away, which proved to be a bad decision, since Crowley was still watching the performers. Or at least, Aziraphale assumed he was—it was difficult to tell with the odd contraption over his eyes.

Was he watching the performers? Did Crowley like that sort of thing? Aziraphale had no interest in human sexuality, of course, but… well, it seemed rather more appropriate for a Demon than for an Angel. Then again, even if Crowley were watching them, there was a possibility he simply appreciated the aesthetic or artistic merits of the performance.

Aziraphale looked at his lap, suddenly warm. He hadn’t spent leisure time with Crowley since his little epiphany in Alexandria, and it was beginning to seem as though that had been a good choice on his part.

“How did you meet, then?” 

Aziraphale looked up to see one of the Romans, a middle-aged man with coppery hair, watching them from the neighbouring couch. He was sitting next to another man, who appeared to be dozing with one hand on the first man’s thigh. 

“Aserfilus, wasn’t it?” The Roman asked.

“Oh, yes. Er…”

“In a garden,” Crowley said, shifting slightly closer. “Really nice one, too. Verdant.”

“I see.” The human smiled a bit. “When?”

“A very, very long time ago,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley chuckled, and Aziraphale found himself smiling in sympathy, though he tried to tamp it down. 

“That’s nice,” the human said. “I met Quinctilianus here two years ago.” He prodded the sleeping man’s leg with one knuckle.

“Hmm?” Quinctilianus opened his eyes.

“Just telling these newcomers about you,” the first man said. “You can sleep.”

He closed his eyes again. 

Oh dear. Did he think— “We’re, er.” Aziraphale licked his lips, not letting himself look at Crowley. What a horrible situation. “We’re not together. That way. Or at all, for that matter.”

He could hear Crowley shifting beside him, and that made something go all funny in his chest. He tucked the feeling away. More important things to deal with. 

“I see,” the human said. “Sorry, I just assumed.”

“You certainly did,” said Aziraphale, and sat back.

The human offered a smile, then turned to speak with a different dinner guest.

Aziraphale risked a glance at Crowley, who was watching him, though he couldn’t see his eyes. “I’m afraid this whole thing is not quite what you might’ve hoped,” he said quietly.

“’S all right.” Crowley offered a smile. “Anyway, I’m still supposed to try oysters, yeah?”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale looked down and away. “Yes, that’s right. Oysters.”


	407. 52 AD - Rome, Italy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for accidental deadnaming and reference to prostitution.

_Sunday, 3 March 52 AD. Rome, Roman Empire, Italy._

Crowley paid the merchant and picked up his purchase, which was wrapped in fabric. He hadn’t been expecting to buy anything today, really, but this wasn’t something he’d wanted to risk missing if somebody else wanted to buy it first. And he could always miracle up more money.

With the package safely tucked against his chest, Crowley left and started walking. 

He wasn’t going home. That wouldn’t do any good, not with what this was. Or, wouldn’t do any bad?

He was just getting the hang of Latin properly now, so mixing up all the value judgements for Demonic accuracy was a little too much work. 

A human side-eyed him from an alley as Crowley passed. They looked desperate. Probably enough so to try to jump him. Crowley tipped his glasses down at the human. Their eyes went wide, and they shrank back into the alley. 

The glasses were nice. Crowley’d tracked down a jeweler a couple years before coming to Rome who’d been willing to put them together. He’d been able to wander around Judea while a woman for the first time in centuries without weird looks. Or, well, different weird looks, anyway. More what-is-that-on-your-face looks than are-you-a-prostitute or ahh-what-is-wrong-with-your-eyes looks. Which was… nice. 

He turned the corner onto another street, this one lined with buildings full of flats for the less wealthy. All except for one building, anyway, which was conspicuous both in that it was the only single residence on the street and in that it was smaller than the vast majority of single residences in the city. It also gave off an air which suggested that one ought not pay it any attention.

Crowley, naturally, went right up to the smaller building and knocked at the door.

There was some shuffling, and then the door opened. Aziraphale’s eyes widened when he saw him, and he ushered him in to shut the door before speaking. “What are you doing here?”

“Found something. Thought you might like it.” Crowley held up the package. “D’you have a desk?”

Aziraphale scoffed. “Of course I have a _desk_.”

“Where is it?”

Aziraphale showed him to the desk. 

Crowley set the package down and unwrapped it with fingers that didn’t shake at all, thanks. “Dunno what the story is—think it’s something boring in Latin—but it’s a new format for writing. Called a ‘codex,’ I think.” He stepped aside and eyed Aziraphale past the bar of his glasses.

“My word.” Aziraphale stepped forward and ran a finger over the papyrus. “How creative.” He paused, looking at Crowley and narrowing his eyes. “Crawly?”

“Crowley. Yeah?”

“Are you… unable to read Latin?”

Blast, he caught that. “Ehh… I know the letters.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “It would behoove you to learn.”

“I am learning. Just, slowly. It’s not the most useful of skills, you have to admit. And I’ve just got the hang of speaking it properly.”

“You’ve been perfectly passable for three years.”

Crowley swallowed. He’d noticed? Why on Earth had Aziraphale been keeping track of how well Crowley spoke Latin? “Three years is nothing.”

“I suppose. All the same, I would recommend you hop to it.” Aziraphale picked up the codex and moved to sit. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to look this over.” He made eye contact with Crowley through his glasses. “If you don’t mind?”

“Ngh.” Crowley looked away. “I don’t mind.” He’d only really got it for him, anyway, if he was being honest. Which he wasn’t. Definitely didn’t spend that much money on a gi—a thing for his angel.

“Wonderful.” Aziraphale beamed. 

“I’ll just go, then?” Crowley glanced at Aziraphale, then away again. “Yeah, definitely going. See you around.”

No sense lingering when he was like this.


	408. 66 AD - Rome, Italy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to slavery, alcohol use, and accidental deadnaming.

_Monday, 13 December 66 AD. Rome, Roman Empire, Italy._

Aziraphale sighed, making a grandiose gesture with the hand which wasn’t holding his wine. “It’s not _right_! They can’t go about conquering people and expect it to go well. And now they’re at war, and no one thinks there’s anything amiss. I mean, ‘riots.’ Honestly.”

“I’m agree,” Crawly said. “Er, I agree. I’m agreed? ’S not right. But that’s reality for you.”

“The worst part is,” said Aziraphale quietly, “I’m not allowed to go help. Not allowed! I got the memo last month. They’re Her chosen people.” He huffed. It wasn’t right, the Romans taking over Judea. 

“What about the Christians?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Yeshua wasn’t the messiah. He didn’t follow through properly, or we wouldn’t be here.”

“The humans can’t know that. He was supposed to be the messsiah.”

Aziraphale took a sip of wine. “I suppose. But he wasn’t.”

“They’re following Her too, though. More or less.”

“That isn’t the point, Crawly—er, Crowley.” He huffed. “The point is that the Romans are being absolute—absolute—”

“Wankers?” Crowley asked timidly.

“No,” said Aziraphale sharply, then paused before finishing his thought. “Absolute _bad people_ over the whole entire thing.”

“I mean, yeah.” Crowley stretched out on the couch, tugging off his ‘glasses’ and looking at the ceiling. “They’re Romans.”

Aziraphale found himself looking a bit too extensively at Crowley’s form and averted his eyes. “I hardly think judging them based on nashun—notia—place they came from is a good idea.”

“Ehh. You’re prob’ly right. But I’m a Demon, so ’m meant to do bad things.”

“Technically, but that’s not just bad, it’s unfair.”

“Isn’t unfair just a flavour of bad?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Oh.” Crowley frowned. “I’m just saying, Romans have a pattern of being generally… you know.” He made an indistinct gesture. “Generally.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. 

“You know.”

“I do not, in fact, know.”

Crowley huffed and lurched forward to lean toward Aziraphale, elbows propped on his knees. “Generally… fuck, gener—”

“Language.”

“Generally imperial fuckers,” said Crowley, and sat back with a satisfied grin.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “ _Really_ , dear.”

“Am I wrong?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale pettily, even though Crowley was reasonably correct.

“Oh.”

They sat in silence for a moment. 

“You’re wrong on principle, at any rate. There are Romans who choose not to engage in… you know.”

“Hmm? Oh. Right. I mean… the thing. Just. Needed a mean sort of noun.”

“I see.” He sipped his wine. “You do have a point about Romans, though.”

“Not really much worse than Egyptians,” said Crowley.

“They keep more slaves.”

Crowley made a face. “Yeah, good point. Except for the, the, the. The Greek Egyptians.”

“The what?”

“You know. The last bunch. All those pharaohs with the same name. Tom, maybe.”

“That isn’t a name.”

“Isn’t it? Tolly… Tommy… Ptolemy.”

“Oh, them. They were Greek,” said Aziraphale. “Weren’t they?”

“Think so. ’S why all those books were in Greek.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“Yeah. Point is, the Tommys kept slaves. I think. Didn’t stick around there long.”

“Ptolemies.”

Crowley made a dismissive noise. “Sssame difference.”

“It is not.”

“Is too.”

Aziraphale huffed. 

“Fine, _Ptolemiesss_.” Crowley stuck his tongue out at him. It was a snakey sort of tongue. 

Aziraphale swallowed and took a sip of wine to avoid looking at it. He’d begun thinking about… romantic sorts of things from time to time now they were in the city, and it was terribly disconcerting. 

“You all right, angel?”

He set the cup down. “Oh, yes. Tip-top.”


	409. 69 AD - Rome, Italy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene is slightly inspired by the song ‘Summer of ’69’ by Bryan Adams.

_Thursday, 25 July 69 AD. Rome, Roman Empire, Italy._

Crowley growled in frustration and slammed his fist on the table. “It’s not my fault if it doesn’t make any bloody sense! I don’t care if it’s just twenty-whatever letters, you can’t tell which words are which.”

“That’s why you have to read it aloud.” Aziraphale sat back in his chair with a huff and tugged his toga into place.

“But I don’t want to. ’S embarrasssing.” 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“What?”

“Honestly, Crowley. You’re as bad as Gabriel.”

Aziraphale was lucky Crowley loved him, or he’d have found himself with an irate Demon on his hands. As it was, Crowley just growled at him and crossed his arms.

“Why don’t we try some writing, hmm? With nimble fingers like yours, I imagine it will be a piecemeal cake.”

“Piece _of_ cake, angel.”

“That’s what I said.”

“It’s really not.”

Aziraphale slipped a wax tablet from under a stack of scrolls on his desk and slid it toward Crowley. “You knew what I meant, and that’s what matters.”

“Yeah, but you got it wrong.”

“Ah, and here I thought I’d never see the day when you denounced doing wrong.” 

Crowley’s eyes widened. “That’s—Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale picked up the scroll that had been in front of Crowley and began rolling it up with a flourish. “Yes, Crowley?”

“You’re winding me up.”

“Now, whatever gave you that impression?” Aziraphale passed him a stylus. “Go on.”

Crowley took the stylus with limp fingers, a grin spreading across his face. “You prick, you _are_! You’re enjoying this.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re referring to,” said Aziraphale sweetly, and tapped the wax tablet. “Now write, or I shall despair of ever converting you to literacy.”

Crowley chuckled, but leaned forward and began painstakingly copying the first letter. “I am literate,” he said. “In eight languages.”

“Maybe so, but not Latin, so you had better make it nine.”

He lifted the stylus out of the wax and sat back, propping his glasses on top of his head to look at Aziraphale properly. “Can _you_ read and write in nine languages?”

“No, I can read and write in ten.” Aziraphale scowled, scooting closer. “Now, really—” He took Crowley’s writing hand in his own and pulled it to the wax— “I happen to know that interrogating my literacy will do nothing for yours.”

Crowley blinked at him, jaw going slack. Aziraphale was holding his hand. To make him write, granted, and his grip wasn’t the kindest, but—

It was ridiculous, frankly. He was just staring at him, not even looking at their hands, though he could feel them. He could feel their sides, too, just barely grazing when the letters led the Aziraphale to stroke toward Crowley. The angel was intent on the wax, shaping the letters, lips pursed in concentration. 

Satan, he wanted to kiss him. Fuck. 

Crowley’s hand froze. Aziraphale frowned, then turned his head to look at him, and Crowley had just enough time to jerk his head forward sharply so his glasses fell forward onto his nose. 

Aziraphale’s mouth had turned down at the corners. He looked genuinely displeased now, bless it. “It’s one thing if you harbour no interest in learning, Crowley, but it’s quite another if you insist on resisting.” He exhaled sharply, and looked away. He waited a beat, then scooped the wax tablet off the table. “I do believe that’s enough, then.” 

“Aziraphale—”

“It’s quite all right, I assure you. Just a moment; I’ll tidy up and then escort you to the door.” He stood, depriving Crowley of his proximity, holding the wax tablet close to his chest as he shuffled through scrolls to no apparent end.

Bless it, he’d gone and mucked it up. 

Crowley set the stylus down with the others, prodding the end so it sat perfectly in line, then stood. 

It didn’t take long for Aziraphale to stop shuffling. He straightened up, and looked at Crowley with an uncertain expression. “I hope—that is, I hope I—er, my behaviour—”

“You’re fine, angel.” Crowley tried to smile. It wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault Crowley was a presumptuous bastard who got lewd ideas like kissing. They weren’t even designed to do that. Strictly a human thing, kissing. 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, his shoulders slumping. “I’m… yes. Of course.”

There was a pause in which Crowley didn’t breathe. 

He had to say words, didn’t he. “Escort me to the door, wasn’t it?”

“Quite right.” Aziraphale looked away and brushed past him to go to the door. “Off you go, then. Try not to cause any trouble.” He unlatched it and pulled it open. 

Crowley strolled past and descended the steps. “You know I have to.”

“Cause minimal trouble, then.”

“Ehh.” Crowley turned to face him, grinning. “No promises.”

Aziraphale wrung his hands in front of him, illuminated in gold from the summer sun. Standing in the east, he was. Proper cliché.

Crowley loved him for it.

He glanced down, then back to Crowley’s eyes. Or glasses, really. He was squinting into the evening sun. “Off you pop, then.”

“Yup. Popping, me.”

Aziraphale huffed, and Crowley grinned wider, then turned and began to walk off. 

When he’d passed the next house down, Aziraphale called to him. “Pardon me!”

Crowley turned to see him, standing there on the porch. Had no business being that beautiful. Every bit the angel. 

He walked closer to the house and paused at the base of the porch. “What?” 

Aziraphale looked down at him. “Again? Next week?” 

“Sure thing.” Crowley could feel the warmth in his chest getting stronger. “I’ll go, then?”

“I think you had better.” He sounded almost… disappointed.

“Right.” Crowley saluted. “Ciao.”

He could feel Aziraphale’s gaze on him as he walked away. This summer had been… unreasonably good. Crowley just wished they could stay in Rome forever. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I recall correctly, writing in Latin wasn’t separated into words for a long time, and so it worked best read aloud. 
> 
> Also, in case anyone's curious, Crowley speaks eleven languages at this point,* being the language of Heaven/Hell, Sumerian, Egyptian, Akkadian, Greek, Phoenician, Meroitic (which is the language spoken in Kush when he was there), the language of Mu, Aramaic, Hebrew, and Latin. He's also literate in all of them but Meroitic and Latin. Aziraphale, for his part, can speak, read, and write most of the same ones, except he doesn't speak Meroitic or the language of Mu, and he does speak Old Persian.  
> (* Where I'm writing now, in the 800's, Crowley speaks an additional five while Aziraphale speaks an additional three, and they'll both acquire more before the story's over.)


	410. 77 AD - Rome, Italy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for accidental deadnaming, slavery, and implied/referenced antisemitism.

_Sunday, 3 January 77 AD. Rome, Roman Empire, Italy._

Aziraphale looked up at the Colosseum and hugged his cloak tighter around himself. He really ought to go somewhere else. Staring at it did no good. And yet, he couldn’t help himself. 

At least there seemed to be relatively few workers out today. It was cruel, making people work in this weather. Of course, it wasn’t raining now, but it had earlier in the morning, and the clouds hung low and grey in a manner that promised a proper shower later on. 

Well. Perhaps he could encourage the workers a bit, if nothing else. Scrape by with a blessing or two.

He walked toward two of the workers, who were sitting under an arch of the lowest tier. “Pardon me?” 

The closer of the workers looked up, eyes flicking up and down Aziraphale’s figure. Then he frowned. “You speak Hebrew?”

“Oh. Yes, I do.” He looked a bit more Roman now than he had when he departed Judea. Paler, and the shape of his face was different. Though the locals still didn’t regard him as one of their own. “I was just wondering if I could be of service in any way?”

“Are you joking?” The other human scoffed. 

“No, I’m afraid not.” He pursed his lips. “I—well, you see…”

“You Romans destroyed our temple,” the second human said quietly. “What makes you think you could help us?”

The first gave his companion a warning look. “It doesn’t do anything to be rude, Isaiah.”

Something twinged in Aziraphale’s chest. “I’m not—that is, I pose no threat to you. Your anger is… understandable.” When he’d learned about the temple’s fate, he’d had some rather wrathful urges himself. 

“Why do you care, then?” Isaiah crossed his arms, rolling his eyes when his companion gave him a cautionary expression. “Don’t you start. He says he’s not a threat, and I believe him.”

“I—er, that is, my father was Jewish.” That was suitably believable, wasn’t it? It explained his appearance, his concern, and why he wasn’t wearing a head covering. He’d had to stop that when Heaven instructed him to join in the higher ranks of Roman society. Though he still wore it at home from time to time. 

“Hmm.” Isaiah still didn’t look terribly sympathetic.

Aziraphale looked away. “I’m sorry, it was rather silly of me.” He pulled his cloak tighter again and shivered as rain began to fall. “Best of luck.” He waved a hand, blessing them at the same time. 

He trudged off into the rain. 

It was pathetic, really. He was being pathetic. Heaven wasn’t concerned, so why was he? Really.

“Aziraphale!” 

He turned to see Crawly—Crowley running toward him from one of the nearby buildings. His black cloak billowed behind him, and when he drew closer, Aziraphale could see where his dark brown curls had stuck to his forehead. Raindrops painted his glasses, and he was… unreasonably attractive, to put it plainly.

Aziraphale swallowed. “Hello, Crowley.”

Crowley grinned. “You remembered!”

“I do sometimes.”

“Yeah, guess so.” Crowley sniffed, slicking his hair back with one hand as he turned, so it looked as though he was admiring the Colosseum. “What’s all this about? What’re you doing here?”

“It’s nothing,” said Aziraphale. “I’m just a bit out of sorts.”

Crowley pouted sympathetically. “The temple, still?”

“Quite. And all the poor people building the Colosseum.”

Crowley grimaced. “Ooh, yeah. No good, that.” He paused. “I’m in favour, ’course. Naturally.”

“Naturally,” Aziraphale agreed with a small smile. “Was there something you needed?”

“Nah. Just saw you, and, er. Y’know.” His shoe scuffed the wet pavement. “Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Need something.”

“Oh.” He glanced toward the Colosseum, which was becoming blurred in the increasingly heavy rain. “No, I believe I’d better be getting home. I might have a tipple of something warming, but I have a report to write.”

“Eurgh. I’ve got due within the decade.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“’S better than being in—er, anyway.”

It’s better than being in Hell. Aziraphale supposed it would be, really. “I’ll go, then.”

“Yeah.” Crowley glanced toward him, golden eyes flashing past the frame of his glasses. “I’ll go too. Bit wet for me.”

“Damp, one might say.”

“Sopping.” Crowley turned and began walking away. “Bye, angel.”

“Good-bye.” Aziraphale watched him go for a moment, then turned hurriedly and set off for his house. 

It was the strangest thing, really. He had been quite cold, before. And it was chilly in general, the raindrops sticking his curls down. But inside, he felt warm now. 

Love was a funny old thing. 


	411. 93 AD - Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for torture theats.
> 
> As usual, there's a plain-text version of Dagon's messages in the end notes.

_Spring 93 AD. Hell_. 

_d3mon crowely,,,_

_u were re_ cently ASSIGNED TO TEMPT THE **SON** OF GOD IN _ORDER_ 2 BRING ABOUT ARMAGGEDON AND THE TRIUMpH OF HELL. you failed. the **son** of god did not bring abt armagEDDON!!!!! _AS SUCH_ , Lord Beelzebub commands that you report to H _ELL_ within T _H_ E deC _ade_.

^^^!!!

THE DECADE, crowli. the d _e_ cade<

you may write ‘one’ letter in ‘ **def** _e_ **nse** ’

insinCErely,

Dagon, Lord of the Tablets.

***

To Dagon, Lord of the Tablets.

**Purpose** : Defense of Demonic actions.

**Text** : Lord Dagon. I think my conduct on Earth was actually beyond what you’d expect of a Demon of my skills. Yeshua, the son of God, wasn’t meant to be temptable in the first place. So, the fact that I did and succeeded at all means that I did exceptionally well. I may not have brought about Armageddon or the triumph of Hell, but I did avert the triumph of Heaven, and tainted one of the holier human souls to walk on the rock sphere that is Earth. 

In conclusion, I don’t think I did anything deserving of being recalled to Hell. Frankly, I’m your best tempter, and I proved it. With Christianity just getting off the ground, the next couple of centuries are going to mess with the rest of history. D’you want to give ~~Ligur~~ some other Demon with less experience that kind of responsibility? 

Yours in terror,

The Demon Crowley.

***

** Dem0n crwly, **

** You’re a disrespectful arse. GE ** T down ‘here’ before ‘we’ send Ligur. He’s already PUllIng out the m@ _Ggots_ and hiring _elephanti_ ne **UN** _ **DERDEMONS t** o c_Rus _h ur bones_. 

_f_ uck u,

Dagon, Lord of the Tablets.

***

Dagon and Demon Crowley,

Your correspondence has come to my attention. I am not pleased. The Demon Crowley is reassigned to another part of Earth, effective in two months Earth time. Where is of no importance to me, provided it is away from his current location. Let Crowley choose. Think of it as a holiday, in exchange for corrupting the Enemy’s progeny. 

As for Dagon… come before the Dark Council when you receive this. 

_Very_ sincerely,

Satan, The Devil, The Desecrated Cherub, Ruler of Demons, The Evil One, Deceiver of Humanity, Lucifer Morningstar, King of This World, Emperor of Darkness, and God of the Age to Come.

***

To Satan, The Devil, The Desecrated Cherub, Ruler of Demons, The Evil One, Deceiver of Humanity, Lucifer Morningstar, King of This World, Emperor of Darkness, and God of the Age to Come.

**Purpose** : Thanks and Deference

**Text** : Yes, lord. I will be going east just as soon as I’ve finished up my temptations* here.

(* Crowley also took this time to tell a certain Angel he would be leaving.)

Thank you, lord. 

The Demon Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 80% of the research I did for this chapter was coming up with names for Satan. Also. I finally figured out how to change fonts! So Dagon's letters are really, properly illegible now. :D
> 
> Dagon's First Message:
> 
> Demon Crowley,
> 
> You were recently assigned to tempt the son of God in order to bring about Armageddon and the truimph of Hell. You failed. The son of God did not bring about Armageddon! As such, Lord Beelzebub commands that you report to Hell within the decade.
> 
> [Three carats and three exclamation points for emphasis.]
> 
> The decade, Crowley. The decade.
> 
> You may write one letter in defense.
> 
> Insincerely,
> 
> Dagon, Lord of the Tablets.
> 
> End of Dagon's first message. 
> 
> Dagon's second message:
> 
> Demon Crowley,
> 
> You’re a disrespectful arse. Get down here before we send Ligur. He’s already pulling out the maggots and hiring elephantine underdemons to crush your bones. 
> 
> Fuck you,
> 
> Dagon, Lord of the Tablets.
> 
> End of Dagon's second message.


	412. 97 AD - Ephesus, Anatolia

_Wednesday, 29 May 97 AD. Ephesus, Roman Empire, Anatolia_.

Aziraphale bid the humans he’d just finished blessing farewell and stepped down from their house. It was a mild day, with a few clouds about. Quite good weather for a stroll. Which was convenient, because he didn’t quite recall which direction he’d come from, and he was thinking of getting a bite to eat.

Ephesus was quite nice, overall. Not terribly exciting, but nice. He was just popping through on assignment, though, and had to be getting back to Rome in a few days. 

The prospect wasn’t quite as compelling anymore, since Crowley had to leave. For the last few decades, he’d looked forward to returning to Rome while on assignment, since he knew the Demon would have choice commentary on the whole affair. It took the edge off, regardless of what sort of emotional response a given assignment invoked in him.

He was in a residential area now. The buildings were large, and a mite run-down. A small group of children were chasing one another around on one side of the street, shrieking and laughing. Older humans sat outside their houses or looked out the windows. He could smell cooking somewhere.

A door a few houses ahead of him opened, and an older man stepped out. He looked oddly familiar, even from a distance, which was strange considering Aziraphale hadn’t been this way recently. 

He neared the human, who was settling into a chair beside the door to his house. He really looked rather old, with wispy white hair and a deeply lined face. “Er, begging your pardon,” Aziraphale said. “But have we met?”

The human turned to look at him, and Aziraphale gasped, one hand going to his chest. “Good lord. John?”

John blinked. “Do I… know you?”

Of course, he looked a bit different from when he last saw John, didn’t he? When had that been? At the Passover seder, perhaps, when John had been lounging against Yeshua’s shoulder… “Aziraphale,” he said. “I’m Aziraphale.”

John’s grey eyebrows shot up. “Aziraphale… how?”

“I am an Angel,” he said. There wasn’t really much he could do to change John’s faith, seeing as the poor fellow literally knew Yeshua back in the day, so it didn’t seem unreasonable to be honest. “I’m afraid my appearance has shifted slightly since I moved north.”

“Oh… I see.” John huffed a slightly wheezy, incredulous laugh. “Who’d have thought I’d meet you way out here?”

“Not me, I can assure you.” Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back. “Are you busy? If you’d be amenable, I’m quite interested in hearing what you’ve been up to.”

“No, not busy.” John smiled. “In fact, I’ve been up to something that I think might interest you. I’ve had visions of the future.”

“Gracious. That sounds a bit disorienting.”

“Eh. I’ve got used to it. And when you’re old like me… well, let’s just say there are few things more disorienting than spontaneously speaking half a dozen languages you couldn’t speak before.”

“Oh dear.” He’d done the reverse, of course. It seemed logical that the two could be similar. “So you’ve taken up prophecy?”

“Yes. I’m thinking of calling it ‘Revelations on the Time To Come and Also the End of Times, Inspired By an Abject Disregard for Authority of the Roman State and Some Fascinating Greek Mushrooms That Made Me Feel Loopy.’”

Aziraphale managed to avoid grimacing. “How… descriptive.”

“I know. I think it’s going to be a hit.”

“Hmm. Perhaps it might be more memorable if you shortened it? Just a tad.”

John frowned. “Maybe…”

“Either way,” said Aziraphale quickly, “I’m sure it’s wonderful. Now, what brings you all the way here? You mentioned Greece?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dipped for a bit there, it would seem. Rest assured I am quite well! I just spontaneously decided to do a thing that was rather labor-intensive on short order and did nothing else for three days. In other news (it's not other news; it's basically the same news), I may have put together a bibliography/further reading for this story with references to a whole bunch of papers/books/academic websites about stuff I've researched for this, so uh... if anyone's interested in a ~7 page list of ancient history things, let me know and I'll put it up on tumblr for posterity.


	413. 114 AD - Luoyang, China

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of adultery.

_ Tuesday, 16 October 114 AD. Luoyang, Sili Province, China.  _

Crowley flopped down into a seat across from a Parthian merchant. Since he arrived in the city, a wealthy local merchant had taken a shine to him, and he’d just sort of gone with it. The merchant seemed to be a decent person, so he could corrupt him while he was at it, and it had given him a way to get on his feet. 

He wasn’t entirely sure why he kept him around, honestly. Probably had something to do with his language capacity. There were a surprising number of traders from Crowley’s old haunts coming through these parts. 

“Crowley, was it?” The Parthian asked. What was his name, anyway. Farnavaz? Farnaka? Something like that. 

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Hmm.” Farna-whatever frowned. “What brought you all the way out here?”

“How d’you mean?”

“I mean, you’re Roman, aren’t you? Or… Phoenician? Judean?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “You planning on guessing all night?”

Farna-whatever scowled at him. 

“Half Judean,” he said with a sigh. “And Roman, yeah. Came here from Rome.”

“But why are you here?”

“Stuff came up. And it’s not half bad.” It was a nice change of pace after so long in the same general area, really. And the humans had some interesting stuff going on here. Philosophy and silk and stuff. Aziraphale would like it, probably. 

“How long have you been here?”

“About twenty years.” Long enough he was basically fluent in the local language, but not long enough to have bothered learning to read yet. Aziraphale would be frustrated with him over that. 

“That’s a long time. Don’t you have—I don’t know. Family back home?”

“Nah. ’S just me.” Crowley frowned. “Anyway, don’t you, too?”

Farna-whatever shrugged. “I bring things back for my kids.” 

There was a strange quality to how he said it. Maybe Crowley could get him to say something a little more incriminating. 

“Mmm.” It was usually a safe response—enough to show he was listening without judging at all. 

“It is tiring, though,” Farna-whatever said reflectively. “Being out here on my own.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Sometimes, when I’ve been out on a caravan for a year or two, I wish…” He stopped, as though he thought the better of whatever he was going to say. 

Crowley waited.

“It’s a long time to go without my wife, is all.”

Bless it. Not adultery. Still, Crowley should probably do something about it. “That’s understandable.”

“Is it?”

“Oh, yeah. Nothing to be ashamed of.” Crowley hunched over a little more, settling in for a proper temptation. “’Specially since it’s not like your wife would ever find out, if something  _ did _ happen.”


	414. 123 AD - Rome, Italy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for accidental deadnaming, unwanted advances, adultery, and slavery. Also, ethnic stereotyping, but it's against the British, which I feel like doesn't reinforce any power structures so I'm not sure what that counts as.

_ Friday, 12 November 123 AD. Rome, Roman Empire, Italy. _

Aziraphale entered the living room of a human woman named Laurentia. He’d spent a few weeks over the summer guiding her to treat others with more care, and thought he wouldn’t need to speak with her again. Unfortunately, they’d bumped into one another in the market recently, and she entreated him to pay her a visit.

He couldn’t be rude, obviously, so he’d come. 

“Aserfilus, I’m so glad you could come.” Laurentia was draped over a couch, her head propped up on one hand as she watched him. “Why don’t you have a seat.”

He sat on another couch opposite her, taking care to sweep to folds of his toga under him neatly. He wasn’t fond of social calls for the very precise reason that togas were terribly difficult to manage. Attractive, of course—on the right people, at any rate—but all the fabric took some practice.

“I was glad to see you in the market,” Laurentia said. “How have you been?”

“Well, thank you.” He attempted to smile. “How is your husband?”

“Away,” she said with an air that suggested she intended to sound disappointed but didn’t quite feel up to putting in the effort to make it believable. “In Britannia, if you can imagine.”

“Britannia?” He’d heard of the place, but hadn’t spent much time on politics. They were terribly complicated, and changed very quickly for an immortal being. 

“Yes. It’s an island in the north. Full of uncivilized men who fight naked.”

“Really? That seems impractical in a northerly climate.” Then again, Roman reports of far-off lands were not really to be trusted, in his experience. They were rather more concerned with sensationalism than accuracy. “What’s he doing up there?”

“He’s overseeing a building project for the emperor.” Laurentia stretched languorously, and signaled for a slave woman, who’d been standing behind the couch, to leave. 

Aziraphale watched the woman go, a much too familiar guilt prickling over him. 

She shut the door behind her, and Aziraphale directed his attention back to Laurentia. She was watching him intently. It made his skin prickle uncomfortably.

“A building project for the emperor, you say?” He prompted.

“Yes. A wall, across the whole island.”

“Gracious. That’s quite ambitious.”

“Perhaps.” She flicked her eyes down his figure, then up again. “Are you married, Aserfilus?”

“Er, no.” He glanced back to the door. He wasn’t really in the mood to avert amorous advances. It was unusual for them to come from a woman, but perhaps Laurentia wasn’t particularly observant. “I say, look at the time.”

“What?”

“The time,” he said, standing. “I must be going. Thank you very much for your hospitality. I would be delighted to visit again at a later time when your husband has returned from his labours abroad.” 

Laurentia sagged back into the couch. “You’re not interested in me, then.”

“Not a smidge,” he said apologetically.

“Men?”

“Er…” Really, he wasn’t interested in anyone. Or he shouldn’t be. Crawly came to mind, but he tucked the thought away to be attended to at a much later date.

“I see.” She waved a hand. “Go on, then.”

He attempted an awkward smile, then opened the door and scurried from the room. Crisis averted, thank the Lord. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wall they reference is Hadrian’s Wall, on which construction was begun in 122 AD. 


	415. 135 AD - Luoyang, China

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for alcohol mentions.

_ Saturday, 15 April 135 AD. Luoyang, Sili Province, China.  _

Crowley stepped outside the house of his host and set off for the market. He’d spent the morning bogged down in translations in and out of Aramaic, which had been… not fun. The trader he’d had to translate for was slightly drunk the whole time and kept slurring his words, which was not helpful at all for Crowley, who hadn’t spoken Aramaic on the regular in nearly a century. 

Still, he was free now, and intended to make the most of it. Though he did have at least one temptation to do by the end of the week…

He had time, didn’t he?

Whatever. If an opportunity presented itself, he’d tempt, and if not, he could do it some other day. He’d spent too much time agonizing over homophones and accents to be properly cut up about it. 

The market itself was fantastic. Humans ran every which way, shouting orders and haggling and talking and laughing. Funny things, markets—they didn’t change all that much over the centuries. Came of people always being people, probably. And then if you got enough people, all the little differences sort of… smoothed out. 

Crowley made a subtle gesture at a fowl vendor’s stall as he passed and wood snapped. The vendor’s wicker cages snapped and a small flock of ducks ran out into the road.

A few more shops down, Crowley stopped by a huangjiu wine stall and leaned on the counter. “One bottle, please.”

The vendor, a slim man with greying hair, set a bottle on the counter. “Rough day?”

“More like a rough decade.” Crowley tossed a few coins onto the counter and took the bottle. “Ta.”

The vendor smiled and moved on to the next customer.

Crowley didn’t actually plan on drinking the whole bottle in a day. Seemed a bit much. And he wasn’t doing too badly these days, really. Plenty of temptations, not much proper suffering. And he wasn’t around Aziraphale, which helped a bit. Fewer peaks and valleys. 

There was a crashing noise from the stall next door. “Oh dear,” someone said. 

Or, maybe not. Crowley turned to look and saw a round man dressed in merchants’ white, bent over and muttering at something in his stall.

He folded his bottle of huangjiu against his chest and walked toward the other stall slowly. “Angel?”

The man straightened up, holding a large bag of grain in muscled arms. “Sorry?” He shifted his grip on the bag slightly and millet began streaming out over his arm. 

Crowley grimaced. “Never mind. Thought you were somebody else.” 

The man seemed to be trying to cover the hole with his forearm, without using his hands. 

Crowley shut down a grin. Humans were funny creatures, sometimes. The bag was clearly a lost cause. 

After a minute, though, he got bored. “D’you need a hand with that.”

The man looked up. “Would you?”

Ugh. Honestly. Crowley tucked the huangjiu into a pocket in the aether and walked forward. “Give it here. Why don’t you find another bag and we can get this in?”

The man handed Crowley the bag, which was heavier than Crowley’d expected. Then he picked up a fresh bag from a stack of neatly folded bags, and held it open. 

Crowley tipped millet into the bag, watching the grains stream in. 

“Thank you,” the man said. “My business partner is normally here. I’m not used to working alone.”

“Don’t mention it.” Crowley finished pouring and shook the bag a few times for good measure, then balled it up. “You’ve got it now?”

“Yeah.” The man smiled. “I’m Dou Yun, by the way.”

“Charmed,” said Crowley as sarcastically as he could manage without being obviously, deliberately off-putting. “I’m Crowley.”

“Hmm. Well, see you around.”

Crowley snorted. “Yeah, sure.” He gave him a mock salute and began walking away. “And maybe look into mice.”

“Oh…” 

Crowley grinned. Yeah, it wasn’t a bad life, all things considered.


	416. 142 AD - Rome, Italy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to antisemitism and implied/referenced genocide.

_ Wednesday, 19 December 142 AD. Rome, Roman Empire, Italy. _

My dear, 

I hope you’re doing all right wherever you are. Easterly, I believe? It doesn’t much matter to me—the long and the short of it is, you’re not here and you don’t know what’s gone on. It’s utterly deplorable. I’m quite put out, as I’m sure you can surmise, or you would be able to surmise if this letter reached you. Which it won’t. 

I’m not entirely sure why I feel it necessary to specify that it won’t every time, yet I do. These days, I feel that I know less and less the reasons behind my actions. Do you ever feel that? I imagine it has quite a lot to do with how much I tuck away. All those nasty thoughts, simmering under the surface and tainting my thought processes. But there’s really no other way to go about this sort of thing, so away they must remain. 

The trouble this time is the Romans. I’m sure it comes as little surprise to you, considering the frightful business with the Temple back in the 60’s, but I’m saying it all the same. It wouldn’t do if I failed to explain such important information, now would it? Even if this really is just a repository for my musings I wish I could say to you.

As I was saying, it’s the Romans. They’ve overrun Judea now. It’s all gone. Well, not gone. But they’ve made it quite clear they wish it were. Renamed it and everything! The Jewish Judeans had a bit of a revolt, of course, but, well… let me simply say the Romans retaliated a mite too hard and leave it at that. You’ve been around humans long enough, and you’re clever enough. I’m sure you can work it out. 

I do wish I could say all this to you, face to face. I know you’d say you supported it, but sometimes I think… sometimes I think you’re getting better. I’m sure you’d think it foolish of me. I come up with the silliest things. Fanciful notions about justice and the propensity of the average being for morality and goodness. 

When will you be back, do you think? Surely it can’t be more than a few centuries. Nine hundred years was far too long, if you don’t mind my saying. Though I have, for the most part,  ~~ forgi ~~ elected to overlook it when it comes to our little liaisons. 

I worry, you know. Hell seems an awful place, full of awful people. And I know you’re lying to me about what happened while you were away. Or, perhaps not lying so much as leaving out the sharp edges. 

I’m not soft, you know. I’m a warrior. I’m sure you recall. It’s the strangest thing, seeing you bite back words as if you believe they could harm me. Nothing does. I don’t let it. 

I had better be going. I hope you’re having a lovely time, wherever you are. 

With most sincere affection,

A.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is referencing the Bar Kokhba revolt. 


	417. 149 AD - Luoyang, China

_ Friday, 13 June 149 AD. Luoyang, Sili Province, China. _

Crowley leaned his hand on his fist, his elbow propped on his knee. “What’s wrong, then?”

Dou Yun settled in to sit across from him with a heavy sigh. “It’s my business partner.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Zhao Qian, wasn’t it? What’s he done now?”

“I don’t know. I guess it’s not that big of a problem…” Dou sighed, and began picking at his clothes in a manner that suggested it really was that big of a problem.

“‘Not that big’ of one still suggests that it’s a problem.”

Dou looked back up at Crowley, lips pressed in a thin line. “And I suppose you think that means it’s also your problem to solve for me?”

“Well,” Crowley said. “If you needed help solving it, I could be convinced.”

“That’s just like you. Sticking your nose in other people’s problems. It’s a weird-looking nose, too.”

Crowley’s jaw fell open for a moment, then he shut it again before speaking. “I—my—hey!”

Dou raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not weird where I come from, anyway.” He readjusted his posture and slumped his cheek further into his hand. “’M just trying to be helpful, anyway.” The last bit wasn’t strictly true, since what he was really trying to do was tempt, but…

“Sorry,” Dou said. “I’m just worked up about it.”

“’S fine.” Crowley sniffed, then waited.

Dou looked back at his clothes and began picking at the fabric. He was going to put a hole in it if he kept that up. “It’s just that I really don’t think he’s holding up his part of the business.”

There, that was it. Wrath worked. Or maybe that was envy? “No? Why not?” 

“He hasn’t been in to work a lot. It’s been getting worse, too. It used to be that we’d be there together every time, but more and more often he’s not there. And he keeps saying it’ll get better, but…”

“But it never does?”

Dou shook his head. “I would do something about it, but I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Really?” Crowley sat up a little straighter and leaned forward, gaze intent even though Dou almost certainly couldn’t see his eyes. 

Dou smirked a little. “I have one or two ideas, but I can’t really put them into practice.”

“Why not? Surely they’re not  _ that _ bad. You’re a good person, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know the surname goes first, but I couldn’t find information on how social norms worked, so I’ve used surname-address for the most part in the hope that more formal is more likely to be correct. 
> 
> Also, that's me all caught up from a couple days off! Again, let me know if you'd be interested in seeing a bibliography for the story up to now. :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [can you say of your bite (that it's worse than your bark?)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29460156) by [cupidphone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupidphone/pseuds/cupidphone)




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